


From Venezia, A World Away

by isometricradiance



Category: Pocket Monsters | Pokemon (Main Video Game Series), Pocket Monsters: HeartGold & SoulSilver | Pokemon HeartGold & SoulSilver Versions
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Eventual Romance, F/M, Hurt/Comfort, Venetian AU, hoo boy this catharsis is really something my dudes, soulsilvershipping - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-08-11
Updated: 2018-11-20
Packaged: 2018-12-13 22:53:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 16
Words: 108,263
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11770101
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/isometricradiance/pseuds/isometricradiance
Summary: Lyra and Silver were inseparable friends in childhood, showing up on each other's doorsteps and eating each other's leftovers. Under mysterious circumstances, Silver and his father Giovanni disappear, leaving Lyra to wonder for five years where her best friend went. While abroad, Lyra experiences an incredible stroke of luck and encounters Silver. It turns out to be impossible to pick up from where they left off, but that isn't going to stop them from trying to meet halfway.This AU is set in Venice, Italy in a modern, no-Pokemon setting! Be prepared for some angst.





	1. 1

**Ten years ago**

Two armies of toys were scattered across the living room floor of a small, urban apartment. On one side, closest to the window and the box air conditioner, was a squadron of stuffed animals, each equipped with a cut-out cardboard sword wrapped in tin foil. Close to the door of the apartment was a platoon of action figures and dolls, poised and ready to take on the invaders from the other side of the apartment. Aside from the drone of the air conditioner and the distant sounds of traffic, not a sound could be heard.

Until a loud shout rang through the apartment and a small, red t-shirt-clad girl burst out from behind the couch, shouting, “OH NO, THE BATTLE HAS BEGUN!”

Throwing herself into the center of the two armies and likely skinning her knees in the process, she swiveled around in a circle on the floor, eyeing up the commanders of the respective forces: a Barbie with a choppy blonde haircut and a broken pencil and yarn nunchuck taped into her hand and a scruffy raccoon wielding a foil broadsword. “Or has it?” the girl announced melodramatically. She laughed darkly and sat up, arms folded as she regarded the enemies. “The Fuzzies and the Guys have hated each other for years? Why? Just ‘cuz they can, I guess,” she announced to no one in particular, swiping the Barbie into one hand and the raccoon into the other. She knocked their weapons against each other and emulated the clangs and groans of battle.

After an epic conflict, she tossed them both aside and stood up. She twisted one brunette pigtail around her finger with a sly smile. “But oh no! A new enemy has arrived for them! Today, they must join forces or they will die!” She leapt onto the couch, vaulted over the back of it, and dropped onto the floor on the other side. Rummaging around under the couch, her hand closed on a cylinder of smooth plastic—a vacuum attachment. With further searching she found a dumbbell, a magazine, and a candy wrapper. She groaned and pulled her arm out from under the couch with a huff.

“Lyra, _mia figlia_ , are you okay?” called her mother’s voice from the kitchen.

Lyra clambered back over the couch and plopped onto it upside down, her legs hooked over the back of it. “Mama, the Fuzzies and the Guys have fought so much. I need a new enemy for them.”

“I’m sure whenever your father visits next, he’ll have someone new for your little friends to fight.” Lyra heard her knitting needles cease and watched her mother enter the living room and regard the scene with a sense of amusement. “My, my. A war?” Her mother guessed, a twinkle entering her dark eyes.

“This is serious!” Lyra flipped herself upright, feeling the euphoric feeling of blood rushing out of her head. “Look at them! They always fight each other.”

“Maybe you should mix up their armies,” her mother suggested. She approached and adjusted Lyra’s shirt, which had hitched over her stomach. “Make some of your fluffies—”

“Fuzzies,” Lyra corrected with a pouty huff.

“Of course, the Fuzzies. Make one of them into a Guy, perhaps?” she asked.

Lyra regarded her army. “Maybe not.”

Before her mother could answer, there was a knock on the door. After a moment of silence, Lyra’s mother cursed under her breath. “I forgot! We’re having guests today.” She glanced up at her living room—filled with scattered dolls, action figures, and stuffed animals—and down at her ratty white shirt and cotton shorts before sighing. “I will ask them to mind the mess, I suppose. Yours and mine.”

Lyra didn’t quite understand what her mother meant by that. She clambered into the couch and peered over the arm of it as her mother carefully crossed the apartment to answer the door. What sort of guests could her mother be having? One of their neighbors? A relative? Whoever it was, it had to be another Italian, because her mother answered the door and began greeting the guest in rapid-fire Italian.

“Ah, Signor Briccone! I hope you mind the mess.” She held open the door, and Lyra peered over the arm of the couch as two strangers entered her house. One was a man, about her mother’s age, with a gaunt face and slicked back black hair. His skin was the same, warm olive shade as her mother’s—another Italian. A child, about her age and of ambiguous gender, hung sullenly by his side. Their hair was flaming red and chin-length, and their skin was almost flawlessly white. _Signor Briccone isn’t that kid’s dad, is he?_ Lyra thought, frowning. _They look so different._

Signor Briccone laughed—the sound seemed false to Lyra—and simply shrugged. “If homes were always clean, I suspect that no one would be living in them.” His accent was much stronger than her mother’s. He held out his hand to her, clearly expecting a handshake. “You may call me Giovanni.”

“You may call me Norma. It’s nice to meet you, sir.” She pumped his hand. Lyra frowned; this exchange seemed rather American for an apartment in a predominantly Italian neighborhood. Upon releasing his hand, she crouched to eye-level with the redheaded child. “Hello, there. And what’s your name?”

Giovanni began to answer, but the redhead cut in quickly with, “I’m Silver.” Lyra noticed he spoke in English, with an accent that was not quite Italian.

With a sigh of defeat, Giovanni responded, “This is my son.”

Lyra’s mother turned to look at Lyra, who shrank down into the couch. She sighed good-naturedly. “That is my daughter, Lyra. No more than five minutes ago she was racing around in here with her toys, yelling and shouting."

Giovanni pushed Silver forward gently with his hand. “Silver, go play with Lyra. Make a friend or two.” Before he could protest, he and Lyra’s mother entered the kitchen, closing the door partway.

The children sat quietly. Lyra regarded Silver curiously. In spite of the heat, he was wearing a black jacket, trimmed in red, that was too long for him, as well as dark gray pants and black sneakers. Lyra looked at her own t-shirt and her shorts. “Aren’t you warm?” she asked curiously, in English.

He looked at her blankly. Lyra frowned and repeated herself slowly. “Aren’t you warm?”

Silver plopped on the floor. “No…no English,” he mumbled back to her in English.

“But you introduced yourself in English. And your name is English. Silver’s not an Italian word,” she argued, now hanging over the arm of the couch. The boy didn’t respond to her. He simply looked at her as though her head had started spinning. _Maybe he only speaks Italian?_ Lyra understood far more of her mother’s native language than she spoke; why had their parents left them alone together if there was a chance that they couldn’t even communicate?

Lyra repeated her original question for the third time in Italian. This time, he seemed to understand. He glared at her. “No. I’m not.”

She supposed he wasn’t. He wasn’t sweating or anything. “Oh. That’s alright, I guess. So you only speak Italian?” she asked.

“No. I just don’t speak English,” he grumbled.

She sighed. He was grumpy. Maybe he was too warm but his body just wasn’t showing it. “You guys are from Italy, right? I think Mom said we had new neighbors that moved from Italy like she did.”

He didn’t answer. Had she said it wrong? Before she could try and correct herself, she watched as he picked up an action figure of hers, a black-clad ninja wielding a sword. He examined in his hands.

“That’s my ninja,” Lyra said, flipping herself off the arm of the couch and landing on the ground with a solid thud. “You can play with him if you want. There’s a button on his back that makes him spin his sword.”

“It’s a katana,” Silver corrected her brusquely. “Not just some ‘sword.’” Nevertheless, he perused the toy for that button and pressed it, making the ninja’s sword spin.

Lyra shrugged and picked up her raccoon with his tin foil sword, adjusting it in his paw. She watched Silver fiddle with it, brushing some of his hair behind his ear. “I’ve never met a boy with hair as long as yours.”

“Why does it matter?” Silver asked, glaring at her.

Lyra puffed her chest out and crossed her arms. He was getting annoying already and he hadn’t even been here for five minutes. “I’m just curious. Sorry."

He had the palest gray eyes Lyra had ever seen; she wondered if he was named for his eyes. “While we’re pointing stuff out, I’ll put some stuff out. You look kind of Asian for an Italian," Silver remarked.

“Oh, it’s cuz my dad is Japanese. My mom is from Italy,” she explained, fluffing her pigtails. “You don’t look Italian, either. Why are you so pale if you’re from Italy, then?”

“Maybe I’m not that Italian,” he challenged her.

Simultaneously they got to their feet and stood across from one another in the carnage of toys, arms crossed as they glared at one another. He was only an inch or two taller than her at most, but seemed skinnier than Lyra, as though he skipped meals. She looked him in those pale eyes and scowled. “Why are you so grumpy with me?”

“Because you ask too many questions,” he responded.

They were almost nose to nose now, each refusing to back down. “Because you’re weird,” she responded with a huff.

“You’re weird!” Silver retorted. Their foreheads conked together and they both backed up, rubbing at their foreheads while continuing to glower at the child across from them.

After a moment, Lyra started to laugh. This situation was ridiculous; there was no need to be in each other’s faces. If she was going to be stuck in this apartment with him, they might as well do something. He looked at her, confused, as she held out her hand to him. “We’re both weird. We should be friends,” she said. “I’m Lyra.”

“Your mom said that,” he grumbled. However, he looked at her hand and tentatively shook it. He introduced himself again, this time in Italian. “I’m Silver. And we’re not friends,”

“I think we should be!” Lyra exclaimed. She clenched her hand around his and dragged him over to her pile of toys. He protested as she added, “Come on! There’s a war going on here! We have to fight!”

He eyed up her army of toys. Coolly, he picked up the ninja. “I don’t go easy on weaklings.”

Lyra pouted before snatching up her raccoon with his sword. She turned her face into a mask of stern ferocity. “Neither do I.”

* * *

  
**Present Day**  
Venice was oftentimes viewed as a city of love, a place where romance and history hung around every corner and radiated from every street lamp. No statue was without a story, and every building was haunted with ghosts from ages past. To a newcomer, the canals seemed a quixotic roadway without understanding that the very canals that brought people into the city were also slowly dragging the city back into the sea.

It was in Venice that Lyra stood, overlooking one such canal with a pensive frown on her face. An ocean wind stirred her hair, whisking strands into her face and freeing lose strands from her messy braid. She gave a sigh and slicked her hair out of her face. Mere days ago, she had been jubilant, practically bouncing off the walls of her apartment and driving her mother batty with her excitement.

Ever since she had arrived in this city, she had felt particularly unwanted.

The intention had been for Lyra, newly graduated from high school and free for a summer before college, to travel to Venice to help her aunt out in her antique shop. She was pregnant with twins, and Lyra wanted to provide additional help to a shop run primarily by her aunt and her husband.

Upon arriving, however, she discovered that she wasn’t as needed as her mother had made it out to be.

After she had settled in, moving her belongings into a spare bedroom in the apartment above the shop, Lyra sat down with her aunt in the stuffy kitchen. It really struck Lyra as to how similar her aunt looked to her mother; there was a fifteen year age gap between them, with Lyra’s mother being the elder sister. It reminded her of when her mother was young, a time when her shining brunette hair glimmered free from grays, and her skin glowed a warm, taut olive. “So, I’m all set up. What do you need help with in the shop?” Lyra asked, drumming her fingers excitedly on the table. She was proud of how smoothly her Italian flowed, sounding almost like a native speaker.

“We need to talk about that,” her aunt said as she leaned back and rested her hands on her round belly. “I gave in about two weeks ago and hired some help. We have a pair of university students working for us. My back and feet hurt all the time, and I broke down and did it.”

Lyra’s drumming ceased. She folded her hands into her lap and gazed at them. Did they not trust her to appropriately help because she was a foreigner? “Oh.”

“We could still use your help around the house and in the shop before lunchtime Wednesday through Friday,” her aunt said helpfully. She reached out to Lyra and patted her shoulder. “Look at it this way. You’ll have plenty of time to explore the city.”

Lyra looked up and forced a smile at her aunt. _I feel like the purpose of my being here has been totally ignored,_ she thought, but out loud she responded, “Of course. Just let me know what you need me to do.”

Presently, Lyra peeled away from the railing surrounding the canal and smoothed her braid. “Well apparently she didn’t need much,” she said to no one in particular. It had been two days since that chat, and aside from scrubbing the kitchen floor and getting groceries for her aunt, she had very little to do. It was nine in the morning on a Monday, and Lyra was wandering through the city. She felt as separated from the tourists as she was from the locals, a quiet ghost flitting between worlds.

It was here that she ambled down the street, amidst a crowd of tourists, when she realized how many languages she heard. She caught a few words of Spanish and Japanese, languages she had rudimentary knowledge of, and a myriad of other languages she couldn’t even begin to recognize. I’d love to understand it all, she thought, marveling at the variety of people she saw. Her frustrations momentarily forgotten, she immersed herself into the crowd of people.

A pair of middle-aged Indian women, one tall and sturdy and the other short and curvy, in colorful saris chattered excitedly about something. A trio of tall, northern European boys with matching white-blonde hair were showing each other pamphlets and maps, nearly running into every person they walked by. A black woman in sharp business attire spoke in rapid-fire French on her phone.

While Lyra watched the woman talk, she noticed a glint of red through the window that her raised arm made. It was red hair, long and messy, draping down over black-clad shoulders. In that moment, Lyra remembered her childhood friend. She opened her mouth, about to call his name, but in an instant that glint of red vanished again, down a side street.

 _That probably wasn’t even him. It’s been so long,_ she thought. _For all I know that was a woman. I didn’t get that good of a look._

In spite of herself, she cut through the crowds, spouting off apologies in the languages she knew, to that side street. She thought back to her childhood, to a place a sea and an ocean away, when times were far simpler.

* * *

**Nine years ago**

“Silver, where do you go to school? You don’t go to mine. I never see you get on the bus or walk over there in the morning.”

It was a damp fall afternoon. In the park across the street from the apartment complex they both lived in, Lyra and Silver were on the swings. Nearly a year had passed since they first met; nearly shouting at each other’s faces in Lyra’s living room. Since then, whether Silver liked it or not, Lyra had constructed a nearly inseparable friendship between them. Lyra was always running up those three flights of stairs that separated them and knocked on the door, demanding that Silver come over.

He never seemed entirely enthusiastic about it, sometimes spending a large portion of the time trying to argue with her over ridiculous things, but she found that he never said no to going out and having fun. His father certainly never seemed to tell him no when it came to spending time outside their apartment.

He looked over at her, his face maintaining that grumpiness that she had become so familiar with. “I’m homeschooled.”

“Whoa. You get to stay in your apartment and go to class? That’s wild,” she said, digging the toes of her bright pink rain boots into the mud below them. “Is your dad your teacher?”  
He shook his head. “No. I have a tutor. Does my dad look like a teacher?”

Lyra supposed that was true. Giovanni looked more like a villain from an action movie than one of her teachers. “How would you know what a teacher looks like if you’re homeschooled?” Lyra challenged him.

Silver groaned and tipped his head back. “Don’t be stupid. I watch movies and TV and stuff.”

“At my place, you do. What if it’s all just a…um…conspiracy? What if teachers are actually all just giant robots and the shows and movies we watch are just what we want you to see?” she asked with a goofy grin, swinging sideways to knock into Silver.

He swung out of her way. “I’m not stupid like you, so I wouldn’t believe that.”

She leapt off her swing and grabbed his, bringing him to a wild halt in the middle of the park. “Take that back! I’m super smart, you jerk!” Silver was dumped unceremoniously from the swing, nearly landing on his butt in the mud. He grabbed at Lyra, who laughed and darted away.

“Get back here!” He shouted, this time in his developing English. Silver charged after her as she darted up the play equipment. She got to the top and froze. I didn’t mean to go to this section! The highest point of the playground equipment only had a fireman’s pole and a climbing wall separating the tall platform from the distant ground.

“Got you!” Silver grabbed at Lyra, and she ducked under his arm. The movement threw her weight backwards, and she started toppling.

“Silver!” she shrieked, trying to regain her balance.

Before she could fall, she felt his hand snag her raincoat, yanking her back onto the platform. His pale eyes were wide, his chest heaving. Lyra felt her own heart beating rapidly. Her throat was tight with tears at the thought of a near fall; she looked away. There was no way she’d let Silver see her cry.

He reached out, as if to comfort her, but instead lightly palmed her forehead. “Don’t be stupid like that again.”

“Well don’t come running at me like that!” Lyra demanded.

Silver rolled his eyes and sat down on the platform, peering out at the playground. City traffic crawled on all sides, but the sound was oddly distant. “Was I supposed to run away instead?” he questioned, his voice suddenly serious.

Lyra shook her head vigorously at him. “Nuh-uh! You’re my friend. You don’t get to run away…but, I guess if you do someday, you should tell me first,” she remarked, sliding her back down the bars to sit across from him. “Don’t be such a doofus, Silver.”

“Says you,” he said, but she noticed his mouth quirking a little. “I meant in the game, you know. I’m not running away in real life. I promise.” Silver paused, seeming to realize that there was sentiment in what he said, before hastily adding, “You didn’t hear that. Pretend you didn’t hear that, or I’ll kill you right now.”

Lyra giggled and rested her face in her hands with a blithe smile. “But I totally did.”

He slowly stood, eyes blazing. In spite of this, there was good humor in his eye. “Well, Lyra, it’s time to die. Hope you planned a funeral or something.”

“You stop that!” With a shriek of laughter, Lyra hopped to her feet and peeled back toward the swing set again. Her best friend sure was a silly boy sometimes.

* * *

**Present Day**

_All that work to get through to him, and he just disappeared in the end, anyway._

Lyra found herself in a tangled mess of alleyways, distant from any nearby canals—a rarity on this particular isla. Leaning against a wall to catch her breath, she peered at the old walls bordering her on all sides. The flash of red hair had been so brief, and she’d seen it around two corners before she had ended up in this secluded location, alone.

“Ah, _dio mio_ ,” she muttered to herself. “I suppose I only followed it because I was bored, anyhow.”

Lyra crouched to adjust the straps on her sandals before meandering off, trying to swallow the disappointment that had risen within her. In spite of his promises, Silver had taken off a long time ago. No, he hadn’t run away. Lyra was unconvinced that his father wasn’t; yet, in a strange way, the betrayal had run rather deep.

For the first time in a long time, she was again wondering actively where Silver Briccone had gone.  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello! I was posting this fic on fanfiction, but I would rather post here. I've definitely come to like this site a lot better. Bear with me if there are any weird formatting issues on this; I'll try to fix them as I review!
> 
> Also, Italian is my third language and by far not my strongest. I apologize for any goofiness with that throughout this fic.
> 
> Thank you for your readership!


	2. 2

**Present Day**

“ _Mia nipote,_ napping during the day? Are you well?”

Lyra was startled into wakefulness by her aunt’s concerned voice. She blinked, looking around owlishly. _I fell asleep in the kitchen?_ Lyra thought in amazement. Noticing her aunt waiting for an answer, Lyra chuckled. “Well, maybe not, if I’m dozing off at…” she trailed off, squinting at the old, foggy clock on the wall for an answer.

Her aunt patted her shoulder. “It’s twelve-thirty. A bit early for a catnap, wouldn’t you say?”

“Yes, I would.” Sheer boredom must have gotten to her and left her snoozing away at the kitchen table like an old man after his dinner. “Do you need me to do anything?” she asked.

“If you’re well, I have a small list of things for you to pick up for me at the grocery store.” Without waiting for confirmation, her aunt pressed a wad of rumpled euros into her hand. Before Lyra could ask for a list, her aunt took Lyra’s other hand, clicked a ballpoint pen procured from seemingly nowhere, and jotted a list down on Lyra’s skin. “Do this for me. Wake your body and soul up. Buy yourself a little something if you wish.”

“No problem.” Lyra felt a headache setting in, but felt that it was in her best interests to not mention this to the pregnant lady.

After her aunt left, Lyra wandered to the sink and massaged her forehead slowly. The heat of summer left her in a haze, one that left an acrid taste in her mouth and a sticky sheen over her body. _It’ll be a good thing, to get up and move around,_ Lyra told herself as she filled a glass of water.

As she slowly sipped at it, she thought about what likely was also inspiring sluggishness in her. It had been close to a week since she had pursued the ghost of red hair, a glimmer that had triggered those memories within her. The glass hovering no more than an inch from her lips, she frowned. It was so weird, how quickly she’d thought of Silver. Lyra had last seen him as a middle schooler, just short of her thirteenth birthday.

There had been no warning. One day they were sitting on the swings together at the local park, with Silver likely complaining about some trivial assignment his tutor had given him and Lyra probably babbling excitedly about her progress in piano lessons, and then the next there was no answer at the Briccone’s door and news delivered grimly by her mother. “They left rather suddenly. Signor Briccone said they would not be back, and then he hustled Silver out of the building,” had been Norma’s exact words. They would not be back. True to his word, there had been no sign of Giovanni or Silver since. New neighbors moved in, an elderly Sicilian couple, and Lyra was left to cope with the emptiness her life suddenly owned.

Lyra finished her glass of water and refilled it to take an aspirin. Her head was starting to pound harder, but she knew it would settle, now that she was better hydrated with medicine in her system. She grabbed her purse, made of well-worn brown leather, and shoved the euros in the bag.

Glancing at her arm, she noticed the list that her aunt had written. It was all simple: eggs, milk, bread, and grapes, along with a few personal care items. The list was short, but it was an excuse to get out of the house. Stuffing her hair hastily into a messy bun at the nape of her neck, Lyra descended the stairs, exited out the front door the shop, and entered the streets of Venice.

The noon sun beat down, bright and unforgiving, as she trotted out into the street. In front of the antique shop, the street was rather busy; Lyra had to practically force her way into the foot traffic to head to the grocery store. It was a tiny mom and pop sort of shop, often glanced over by tourists, which Lyra was glad for. Last week, she had been able to make a run for butter and broccoli while avoiding the slow muddle of tourists.

She dodged a rather tall man’s elbow and swerved off onto an alley that would spit her out near the store. Her aunt chided her for her usage of them. “You’re not a local, and it shows. You must be careful. Someone might pick your pocket,” she would warn. Lyra followed the uneven, cobbled alley, apologizing to the orange and white cat whose nap she had disturbed, and arrived far away from the tourists.

This street was much quieter, as it was a residential area. The houses looked a tad newer, rather squared and white as opposed to brown brick and stone. _Not quite like the postcards Mom probably wants back home,_ she thought to herself with a smile. The further her eyes travelled down the street, the older the buildings began to look. In the middle of that age gradient was the grocery store, and Lyra crossed the street to continue her journey.

Upon entering the store, where the door rang a bell when it opened, she was greeted with relative silence. Though most Italians she had met were rather friendly, she appreciated that they didn’t immediately spring upon her if she walked into a store. European ideals of customer service was vastly different than those in the United States—or so she had found thus far.

The owner—a hunched, tiny old woman—was rather familiar with her aunt and would keep Lyra there for significant periods of time chatting if she spotted her, as Lyra had discovered on previous trips. She glanced, almost fearfully, at the front counter. A bored attendant, a young man with scruffy dark hair, sat flipping through a paperback, his cell phone plugged into an outlet nearby. Feeling relieved, Lyra procured a basket and went about her business. Outdated pop music drifted from speakers perched precariously in each corner of the store, and a few cats napped on top of shelves, likely as a form of pest control. It was a far cry from the vast, sterile supermarkets of the United States.

As she moved to the back of the store, where the produce section was, she heard the doorbell jingle again, but the door slammed shut rather rapidly and footsteps pounding. A loud groan could be heard through the store, before a declaration of “ _Maledizione, il bastardo_!” by a snide teenaged boy’s voice.

Lyra snorted. _Goddammit, the bastard?_ Lyra thought to herself. _Someone’s not happy._

As Lyra examined a cluster of deep red grapes, she heard the other person sigh—likely disinterested attendant. The store was so small that even that comparatively quiet noise carried well. “Andrea, loud as always. What happened?” asked the attendant, sounding utterly bored. His Italian was noticeably accented, as though it wasn’t his first language.

Andrea, of _il bastardo_ fame, groaned loudly. He certainly was a noisy boy. “I was chatting up this blonde, down by my parents’ shop, and _il bastardo_ interrupted me.”

“Who’s this bastard now?” the attendant asked. Lyra had to stifle a chuckle as she began bagging the cluster of grapes.

“I was about to ask for the girl’s number, and this asshole came up, said he was her brother and that they had to go home. She clearly didn’t know him. He clearly was trying to get her for himself,” the boy complained.

Lyra heard the attendant flip a page rather loudly. “Or maybe you were being insufferable as usual and he came to rescue her.”

If I were her, I would’ve let someone come in and interrupt. _Andrea sounds like an idiot,_ Lyra thought with a roll of her eyes. _At least there were people like the attendant and the mysterious boy to keep Andrea from pulling that crap._

“Why would she even let a guy like that do that? He looked weird as hell,” the boy complained. “Long red hair and in all black, in the middle of summer. He looked like some street performer or something.”

Lyra nearly dropped her bag of grapes. She hastily stuffed it in the basket, her eyes wide. She paused in her activities entirely to listen harder as the attendant retorted, “You’re not really good-looking yourself. She probably preferred the one who wasn’t harassing her. You’re going to drive away your parents’ business like that.”

She barely dared breathe as Andrea snorted, “Whatever. You’re not much help.”

“Just being honest,” the attendant retorted.

Lyra found her feet moving before she really thought about it. She had to know where the redheaded boy was. The thought of Silver had been plaguing her all week; the likelihood that it was him was so small, but it was consuming him.

He had always been the question at the back of her mind, the thing that plagued her when she had nothing else to think about or do. Maybe there were answers here, in Italy, where he had originally come from.

At the front of the store, Lyra came to a halt, clutching the basket tightly in her hand. Andrea was leaning over the counter, hands braced on it angrily. He appeared to be sixteen or seventeen, with a gawky face and close-cropped brown hair. “ _Mi scusi,_ ” Lyra started, cursing internally for being so formal with a pair of teenage boys, “but I overheard you talking about a redheaded boy with long hair. I’d like to know where you saw him.”

Both boys looked over to her. She felt disgusted as Andrea’s gaze roamed over her. The attendant regarded her neutrally, but Andrea immediately situated himself, an elbow propped on the table and a large, shit-eating grin contorting the lower half of his face. He wasn’t an ugly boy, but he was rather angular and narrow, as though he had gone through a large growth spurt lately. “Why find him? I’m right here,” he said sleazily, making Lyra bristle with indignation.

“His parent’s shop is on the Grand Canal, in the shopping district close to Santa Maria di Nazareth” the attendant told her, before she could start in on Andrea for wasting her time. “It’s the souvenir shop between a wine shop and a boutique.”

Lyra dipped her head thankfully to the attendant. “Thank you very much.” She quickly paid for her purchases, with Andrea watching her far too closely for her liking. Once she got the change back from the attendant, she shot Andrea a dirty look. “If you took a picture, it would last longer. But I also wouldn’t want to be in any pictures you took.” She heard the attendant snort and Andrea scoff behind her, but she was already running out the door, crossing the street and darting down the alley, and back to the shop, where she raced upstairs to put her purchases away in the apartment refrigerator. It all passed in a blur, and she caught her reflection in the nearest window, where she could see her wild eyes and stray hairs tumbling around her face.

_Could that be Silver?_ Lyra wondered, ripping her gaze away from her reflection to stare down at her hands. _Or am I just delusional?_

* * *

  **Eight years ago**

Lyra knew they hated it. She knew that Giovanni would probably come talk to her mother later in the day to complain about it. But she was bubbling over with excitement, and she didn’t care that she was knocking on the door with the volume and speed of a woodpecker, shouting, “Silver! Get out here! I have to show you something!”

It certainly worked, though, because no more than thirty seconds passed before the door was unlocked and brusquely whipped open, revealing a groggy Silver. “Giovanni is gonna be pissed,” was all he said as she bounced on her heels excitedly.

“I don’t care! I just…come with me! I want to show you what I’ve been working on!” she said, feeling impatience set in.

Silver gestured at himself. He was still wearing his pajamas, a black t-shirt and gray sweatpants. “I was sleeping. It’s 7 in the morning on a Saturday.” He had switched to English at this point, his flow far smoother than when she had met him roughly two years prior.

Lyra groaned, deciding she had to take matters into her own hands. “This is more important than sleep or time! Let’s go!” Before he could as much as protest, she grabbed him by the wrist, pulling him out of the apartment, and pulled the door shut with her other hand. He was perhaps too tired to protest, because Lyra didn’t hear one grumbled word from him as she darted down the stairs and to her apartment. She shut the door behind her and dragged Silver to the couch, where he plopped down tiredly. Lyra ran to her keyboard, set up in the living room, and began flipping through pages of music to find the source of her excitement.

Norma opened the door to the kitchen, peering out at the children. “Oh hello, Silver. You’re up early.”

“I was asleep two minutes ago,” he mumbled. He turned to Lyra. “Why am I here?”

Lyra stood in the center of the living room, behind her keyboard. She was ready to burst with the good news. “After eight months of piano, I get to play actual music, Silver. Like…stuff people wrote in powdered wigs back in the old days and not just weird little parts of music. My teacher gave me this!” She grabbed the sheet music off of the built-in music stand and threw herself next to her friend. “It’s Eine Kleine Nachtmusik. A Mozart piece!”

“I’m not a musician. I don’t know what that means,” Silver mumbled, but Lyra, too excited to be bothered by this, immediately leapt back off the couch and back to her keyboard.

She powered it on, hastily set up her music, and met his pale gaze determinedly. “Then you’re gonna hear it.” Without further ado, she gently settled herself into the stool in front of the keyboard, turned up the volume, and began playing the light, almost jocular tune.

Lyra concentrated hard, making sure her fingers were light, the stretch of her hands comfortable. Her left hand felt clumsy; it was her first piece of music that wasn’t the simple plunking of chords for her left hand. Yet, the music bubbled forth as she played, and she couldn’t help but smile.

As she played, the less she thought about the world, and the less she thought about Silver sitting sleepily on her couch or her mother mixing pancake batter in the kitchen. She focused on the immense pride she felt, in undertaking lessons and finally being able to play the sort of music that often drifted from her mother’s radio.

As she struck the final chord, she left her hands resting on the keys for a moment. “So yeah! That’s…that’s what I’ve been working on!” she declared.

“Whoa.” She looked up to see Silver hopping off the couch to look at her keyboard and her music. He stood beside her, peering down at the music with wonder in his eyes. “How do make music from, uh, dots and sticks? And you just were using your hands?” He had switched into Italian at this point.

Lyra grinned. “Yeah, of course it was just my two hands! I can’t play with my toes, too! That's for organists”

“That’s wild,” he muttered. Experimentally, he touched a key, and a G-note rang through the apartment. “I want to learn an instrument, I think.”

Lyra gasped and nearly tipped over the stool as she hopped back to her feet. She bounced excitedly and exclaimed, “Do it! Learn an instrument! It’s so fun! I can show you a few notes and things!”

Norma peeked her head through the doorway. “By the way, Silver, are you going to stay for breakfast? I’m making pancakes and bacon.”

His eyes seemed to light up even brighter, but he dipped his head and said, “Alright.”

Lyra pushed Silver onto the stool and wedged herself next to him. Her excitement growing ever higher, she found middle C and touched it a few times, enjoying the pearly note, before retracting her hand from the keyboard. “Go ahead and just mess with it a little. That’s the most fun, really. Just…uh…being creative! And following your heart!” she declared, a bit awkwardly.

Silver snorted, but Lyra was absolutely stoked to see the interest in his eyes as he crackled his knuckles and wiggled his fingers. “I’ll bet I can get better than you at this in like ten minutes.”

“I’m good and you know it!” Lyra retorted indignantly, but she grabbed Silver’s hands and guided them to middle C. “Play something already! Even if it sucks, just goof off.”

He glanced at her, down at the keys, and then jammed his fingers into a chaotic chord. He glanced at her with a worried look. “Okay, I’m going to get better than you at this in like…ten years. Maybe.”

* * *

**Present Day**

Orange, late afternoon sun poured through the windows of the apartment, and Lyra’s whole body itched. Her hands, immersed in dishwater as she scrubbed out the pan in which she had sautéed mushrooms for dinner. She heard her aunt fiddling with her stereo in the living room, indecisive about whether to listen to a female pop singer or a jazz album. Lyra, in the meantime, felt caught between the urge to throw aside the pan and make her way to the shops near the church Santa Maria di Nazareth and to ignore these feelings altogether.

_There is no way that it’s him. This world is massive, and I don’t have any idea where he would’ve gone,_ Lyra thought, cringing as her nail scraped against the metal bottom of the pan.

“Lyra, do you prefer Laura Pausini or Mingus?” she heard her aunt call.

She sighed. “Always Mingus.”

After a brief stint of Laura Pausini, it flipped to an erratic bass solo characteristic of Mingus. “You’re very much like your mother,” her aunt replied, amusement coloring her voice.

Lyra resumed scrubbing. She heard her aunt humming along to the bass solo, her uncle’s heavy foot tapping along to a beat barely present. As comfortable and sweet it was, Lyra’s feet itched. She wanted to search the city for Silver.

Once the last dish was washed and put away in the rickety cabinets, she stared at her hands, chapped from soapy dishwater. I have to go, she decided. I have to find out. He probably won’t even be by Santa Maria di Nazareth; that happened so early today. But I have to try.

She brusquely dried her hands and poked her head into the living room. Her aunt was laying on the couch, her head on her husband’s lap. Her uncle, a burly, dark-haired man with a rather serious face, looked up the minute Lyra looked in. “I just wanted to say that I’m going to go out for a bit, as long as that’s okay with you.”

Craning her neck up to look at Lyra, her aunt gave a smile. “Yes, explore the city. Just stay near Grand Canal if you’ll be out late. No alleys.”

“No alleys,” Lyra repeated, and she ducked her head out of the doorway again. She rushed through the kitchen, slinging her purse over her body, and back out into the street. The foot traffic was less dense, and the going was much faster as she made her way to Ponte delle Guglie, the bridge crossing the Cannaregio Canal that bisected the sestieri, the district, of Cannaregio. She could hear the water of the canal from here, a low hum under the chatter of pedestrians.

She reached Ponte delle Guglie. As she crossed it, she had to pause to watch the water. The crests of the waves slapping against the walls of the canal were bright golden, almost painful to look at. Her gaze roamed up, watching a gondola bearing an older couple, drift slowly down the canal. As they floated further away, her itch returned, and she dragged herself away from the side of the bridge to continue on her journey.

He was out there. She had to find him

* * *

  **Present day**

The violin case dangled loosely from his fingers as he traversed the crowds that clumped along the Grand Canal. Here, where the tourists were like colorful songbirds in their tacky clothes, he felt that he blended in, even when he had his violin case open and his instrument out, playing tunes that reminded him of a different time in his life.

He had made approximately €50 in tips in his four hours on the corner playing his music, although he’d had to set up in a different place after his run-in with that slimy little boy and his unwilling victim. Disgust rose in his throat as he thought about it. _Privileged little asshole,_ he thought with an eyeroll. He was approaching Santa Maria di Nazareth, his case still bouncing off his leg. Flashbacks to Sunday mass, attended grudgingly with his father, filled his brain. He cast the thoughts aside; he was his own man now. In Venice, he was free. His money was his. His life was his.

Tomorrow night, he had a long overnight shift at a café, and he’d likely be back out playing in the morning in order to make rent this month, but he was free, wasn’t he?

A nagging thought, a persistent one, dogged him yet again. He swept it aside. _That_ was a lifetime away now, a world away. _That_ was in America, not here. _That_ was a place he would never return to again.

He had places to be and things to do; now was not the time to entertain those thoughts. Nor was it ever, really, he decided as he passed by the statuesque façade of Santa Maria, for that was part of a past that he had abandoned altogether. _The good parts didn’t exist without the bad, and I can’t ever reclaim the good without thinking of the bad,_ he thought with a sigh.

He had a life here, and he was going to live it.

* * *

  **Present day**

It was as though crossing the bridge had cleared Lyra’s brain. The air felt cooler and cleaner, the faint nibbling of a headache gone; the ebb and flow of tourists had little effect on her.

At the same time, the world felt dreamlike and slow. Tourists passed her by as she scanned the streets, where everything was tinged gold and red with the setting sun. She felt more strands of hair fall from her messy bun, tossed and teased about by the wind. Her soul felt oddly at peace. If he wasn’t around here tonight, she would let it go. Unless she had more concrete evidence, Silver likely wasn’t here, and things would go back to how they had been, quiet and slow beneath the summer sun in Venice.

She walked along, a small frown creasing her face. The peace was disturbed. _But would I really be okay with not knowing?_ Lyra thought, shoving her hands into her short pockets. _I’ve gone without knowing for so long, and what if there are answers here? What if—_

Long, red hair, out of the corner of her eyes.

Lyra whirled, just in time to see a boy, of average height, walk past her, separated by a slim gap. His red hair was caught in the breeze, flicking away from a serious brow. Lyra froze; it looked like Silver. It looked like him, and her chest ached.

She turned to follow him, but her feet suddenly like lead. Her feet wouldn’t move, and the traffic of self-involved people felt suffocating. _It’s him, and I have to get to him._ She felt her mouth move, and she knew what she had to do. Lyra, unabashedly, at the top of her lungs, shouted, “Silver!”

That red head, bobbing along, froze. When he froze, her feet lightened. She moved, half-jogging toward this person. “Silver!” she repeated. A gap in the people opened up, and she watched as the boy turned toward her. He was pale, a faint smattering of freckles across the bridge of his nose, his clothes dark and somewhat old-fashioned. The only bit of color to him was his hair, pooling around his shoulders before cascading down his back. It was as she drew closer, and saw the pale, bewildered eyes, that she knew that she had found someone from her childhood, halfway across the world.

Silver Briccone was in Venice, five years later.

She halted near him, her eyes huge. He just stared at her, jewel-toned strands of hair dancing in his face. Quietly, she took a step closer to him, her hands hovering. What did she say now? Lyra hadn’t thought this far ahead; her heart was beating so fast.

He beat her to the bunch, his brow furrowed. “I haven’t heard that name in a long time.” His voice was low and soft, his gaze unreadable. It was jarringly different from the brash tones he spoke in as a child. Lyra stepped closer to him to hear his soft Italian better and watched as his brow furrowed. “What are you doing here?” he asked her.

She was about to answer when he scoffed. “Right. You have family here. You have to be visiting someone. Your…aunt, right?” he questioned.

Lyra nodded, a slow grin spreading over her features. Warmth radiated through her; he was okay, alive, and well. “Yeah,” she said, her voice almost a squeak. She swallowed before continuing, “I’m going to college in the fall. Mom urged me to come.”

He nodded, his expression still so flat. Her smile was fading now. Silver doesn’t seem excited to see me, she thought, shoving her hands into her pocket. “Where…where have you been?” she asked him, meeting his gaze once more. “You and Giovanni left so suddenly.”

“A lot of places,” he said vaguely. “Um, it’s…it was good to see you.” He started to turn away from her. Lyra’s stomach sank.

Lyra stifled a gasp and lunged forward, her hand reaching for his shoulder. Her hand snagged the dark fabric of his shirt, and he stopped moving. “Hey! Wait a second! It’s been five years, and you don’t want to catch up?” she demanded. “We were…best friends,” she said, slowly.

He sighed and turned back to her. “A lot happened in that time, Lyra.” After glancing about, he dragged a hand tiredly over his face. Lyra realized there was an air of exhaustion about him, a sort of drawn-out weariness of someone who had experienced a lot of hardship.

She looked up at him with wide eyes, her stomach churning. “R-right. So we should really catch up, then, right?”

Silver seemed to ponder this for a moment, his mouth pressed into a thin, grim line. Then, he nodded slowly. “Yeah. I can’t now. But later tonight I could. Where are you staying?”

“With my aunt. The antique shop near the residential areas in Cannaregio,” she said. “Do you want me to write an address down?”

“No. I know where that is. I didn’t know they ran an antiques place; I’ve probably met them before without knowing they had anything to do with you.” The corners of his mouth twitched upward ever so slightly. “Expect me late. I don’t…really keep normal hours, I guess. I’ll see you then. Promise.”

“Yeah, of course.” Lyra smiled back and watched as he walked away, cutting a rather solemn figure through the crowds. The meeting made her feel uneasy; what had happened to him that he had become so glum? Toward the later years of their friendship, his foul moods were rarer. He genuinely smiled at times, without a trace of a smirk or sarcasm. Silver had become happier, only to eventually turn so morose. _Giovanni probably has something to do with it, the bastard,_ she thought with a huff. _I’ll find out later tonight…whenever his son comes around._

* * *

  **Five years ago**

Early spring rolled in soggy and dreary; Lyra, who despised the snow greatly, found that she hated the gray slush and pelting sleet even more. She had sprinted the block from the bus stop to the apartment shamelessly, kicking up the vile, half-frozen concoction as she went.

Once she was inside, she quickly slipped out of her jacket and boots and slid her feet into warm slippers. “Mama?” she called into the dark apartment, just to check if her mother was home. She was prone to daytime naps. When there was no response, she shook her head. “She left her baby home alone. How sad.”

Lyra shrugged and began setting up her afternoon practice session. Her math homework and the assigned chapter in Adventures of Huckleberry Finn for her English class could wait while she lit up the gray world with a few tunes. As she rummaged through sheet music to find some techniques practices, there was a knock on the door. Lyra scoffed and begrudgingly stood up from where she had been kneeling to look through her music crate. “Silver, come in already,” she ordered in Italian.

“The door’s locked,” he complained back in English.

She huffed and stomped over to the door to unlock it for her friend. He stood there, dressed in a gray sweater and dark jeans with a violin case dangling from his hand; as always, he appeared far cozier than her. The perks of being home schooled, she supposed. Without as much as waiting for her to invite him in, he pushed past her and settled on the couch. “I have some news,” he announced.

Lyra raised an eyebrow and shut the door, locking it once more behind her. “Oh, do you now?”

“No need to sound so fucking grumpy,” he said. Lyra snorted; she had been teaching him English swearwords, and they often rolled awkwardly off his tongue. “My dad bought me a cello, because he thinks the violin is ‘too high’.” He knocked open his case and drew out his instrument. Silver had received it as a birthday gift not long after Lyra had let him play around on her piano a few years ago; she knew it had not been his instrument of choice at the time, but it had grown on him. “I’m gonna learn how to play it, because why not? This thing is my love, though,” he said rather fondly as he began tuning it.

“Do you need an A?” she asked him.

He nodded. “That could help.”

She powered on the keyboard and plunked an A note for him, which he tuned to. The first year of his playing had been painful to listen to, but he now tuned with confidence. “So, he bought a cello? Aren’t those…a lot of dollars?”

“Too many dollars,” he responded thoughtfully. He plucked a few strings absentmindedly, adjusting the tuning here and there as he went. “Money never seems to be a problem, though. He also bought this violin, and those are not cheap. We were at the music store lately, and I was just looking on the walls with string instruments. Some of the really old, beat-up violins cost close to $1,000,” he remarked with a frown.

“Maybe he sells an organ once a year,” Lyra offered.

“He’s sold at least five since we’ve gotten here, then. I don’t know that there are a total of five organs you can live without,” he said, flipping seamlessly back into Italian at this point. He set the violin aside and frowned, gazing up at the ceiling. “Stuff’s weird, Lyra. I don’t really know what sort of business he has. I don’t know where the money comes from, or why we live in this building if he can have that kind of money, you know? It’s not a bad building but…he has certain tastes, I guess.”

Lyra shrugged. “Who knows? My mom makes okay money, but we live here, too. Might just be an Italian thing. Live with other people who complain about the Irish a lot in an old, sort of smelly building. Mom’s always telling me to remember where I’m from and all. I’m sure he isn’t up to anything too bad,” she said.

He glanced at her, unconvinced. In spite of this, he gave her a questioning look. “Do you have leftovers from dinner last night? I’m starving.”

She scoffed. “I was about to start practicing, you nerd.” Lyra stood up anyway and started for the kitchen. “Tell your dad to feed you sometime.”

“Your food’s better. He fucking sucks at cooking,” Silver retorted as he stood up to follow her, once again speaking in English, and Lyra had to laugh at the forced insertion of the swearword. In spite of the sleet outside and the interruption to her schedule, Lyra found that she didn’t mind, as long as it was her best friend—even if it seemed like he only came over to eat their tortellini.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Anyone else grow up in a very Irish-American family that hated Italian-Americans or vice versa? You'd think it wouldn't be an issue in this century, but yet it happened. Apparently the Irish-Americans and Italian-Americans aren't supposed to get along. Whoops.
> 
> Also: I've been going back through this fic and adding links to music! Here's what was referenced in this chapter:
> 
> the version of Eine Kleine I imagine a small Lyra playing: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=j8uTZjhHe3o
> 
> The Mingus tune I had in mind: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=r5j4dou8osU


	3. Chapter 3

**Present Day**

Midnight drew closer, and the fat, lazy heat of Venice still bore down on Lyra. Her hair, normally fairly straight due to its mass, was now curling rather churlishly against the nape of her neck, particularly her strays and flyaway hairs. She wasn’t a night person, and she supposed that assuming he’d come around before midnight had been a stupid move. He’d never been one for early mornings, even from an early age. _I’ll bet Giovanni had a hell of a time with that,_ she thought with a good-natured sigh. Neither Silver nor his father had ever agreed on an appropriate time to go to bed.

Soft swing music drifted from the living room. Her aunt was still up reading, having complained of a sore lower back. She hummed tunelessly to the music, occasionally punctuating the drone with the flip of a page or a soft sigh.

Lyra rested her forehead on her interlinked hands, resting gently on the table. She had told her aunt earlier about the fateful run-in, who simply responded with, “Do what you have to do, but remember to lock up on the way out. Be safe.” She was ready to do so, but that dratted Silver had to get there first.

She could hear the canals faintly through the windows, now that the street was rather quiet, and Lyra could feel her body grow heavier with the noise. Lyra forced herself to sit up and slapped at her cheeks. Even if she was feeling anxious about this meeting, her physical needs were betraying her. Lulled by the heat and the noise, Lyra felt herself droop once more. _Dammit. He’ll come and I’ll sleep through the doorbell or something._ Before she knew it, her head had tipped forward and her eyes closed against the soft glow of the living room lights, the only light in the apartment.

The buzz of the doorbell downstairs roused the unsuspecting girl. _I was asleep?_ Lyra thought, blinking blearily. She remembered it was Silver down there, and she blinked away the sleepiness. Scrambling about, she grabbed her purse and hastily slid her feet into sandals. “Be careful,” her aunt bid her from the living room, “even if you think you know him, it’s been a while.”

“Thanksgottagobye!” Lyra called breathlessly before trotting downstairs, crossing the shop in order to reach the door. Her previous anxiety faded to a buoyant joy that slowly grew in her chest.

* * *

**Present Day**

He wondered why it was so difficult, as he walked along dark streets toward her aunt’s shop. Why did his heart pound so rapidly? Why did he feel so clammy? In truth, Silver felt sick. How much did it show on his face? How obvious was it to anyone who was able to catch a glance of his visage in the lamplights?

One foot slid in front of another, almost mechanically. After all this time, and thousands upon thousands of miles away, Lyra was _here._ She was so _close_ it physically hurt him to think about it. She was the closest friend he’d ever had, the only one who had ever gotten close to him.

He had agreed to see her. Lyra. His childhood friend, she with the dark, trusting eyes. Her face had haunted him for years; the last time he had seen her, her cheeks had been round, her eyes penny-bright, her hair still tucked into pigtails. He had only been two or three inches taller than her at most.

How things had changed since then. Their lives had diverged wildly—there was no denying that. He paused, leaning against a railing separating the street from the canal. When Silver had passed by her earlier, he hadn’t even realized it was her at first, not until he heard that nickname he’d stubbornly gave himself upon arriving in America, so many years ago. She didn’t look so different; her face had lost some of its softness, her hair now stuffed in a bun instead of pigtails, her clothes a little more fashionable. Her body still radiated energy, even if her expression had been more serious.

His chest ached when he thought about how happy she had been to see him, how her entire being radiated joy when she realized that it was indeed him. Would she still be so happy if she knew about the circumstances that had brought him there? About those missing years?

 _Get a grip. Humor her. She’s so happy to see you._ He made himself keep moving, earning a dirty look as he managed to shoulder his way through a large group of Spanish-speaking tourists. _Let her be happy to see you. She’s just visiting. She’ll be in and out before you even know it._

His heart still hammered throughout the walk to the shop, and when he arrived, it seemed to be going even faster. Silver felt so nervous to see her. The dark glass of the first floor, where the goods were kept, reflected his hunched, nervous form. Up on the second floor, the windows still glowed warmly.

Swallowing his anxiety, he walked up to the door. The shop and the apartment likely had the same points of entry; Lyra hadn’t told him anything differently. _I also took off quickly,_ he berated himself. _Way to be a dumbass._ He walked up to the door and found the doorbell. After steadying himself with a deep breath, Silver pressed it, and waited.

 He heard movement. Scrambling, scuttling. She had always been like that, seemingly always in a thousand places at once. He heard the locks turn and then, without further ceremony, Lyra burst out onto the street. She pulled the door shut behind her and locked it before turning to him, giving him a breathless smile. “Hi!” she greeted, a whirlwind of floral scent.

In the light of the street lamp, her features were illuminated warmly. Silver, though nervous, had trouble looking away. The stray hairs falling loose from her bun looked coppery in the tawny light, her skin tinged with a fiery warmth. She was gazing at him, her face…happy.

 _Almost_ happy. He wanted to determine what it was, but she laughed nervously, interrupting his search. “It really…has been a long time, hasn’t it?” she said. Her Italian was nearly flawless now, her voice lower than he remembered it. “I mean, in the grand scheme of things, a couple of years isn’t much, but we were so young. A lot changes for kids in that time, you know?” she rambled, folding her arms across her chest and frowning.

“Yeah,” Silver breathed. He swallowed and gestured out to the street. “So, uh…let’s walk.”

“Absolutely, let’s go,” she said, adjusting her purse. “Are we going anywhere in particular?”

Silver glanced down at her as she looked up at him expectantly. He supposed he was the one who knew the city better; how long had he been here now? _I didn’t think this through,_ he realized. _I’m an idiot._ “I honestly didn’t have anything in mind,” he admitted with a defensive huff, “unless you have an idea.”

“It is a good three hours past my bedtime,” she said rather cheerily, “so I absolutely do not.”

They gazed at each other for a moment before Lyra burst out into a fit of giggles. Silver felt his mouth quirk, and he quickly covered his mouth with his hand. For the time being, his anxiety about the meeting had abated. The breeze, smelling vaguely of brine, stirred his hair and whisked Lyra’s strays about. After calming down, Lyra shook her head slowly. “God, we’re still stupid. Let’s just go walk around or something.”

Lyra took a step in a particular direction, and Silver began to walk along beside her. She had her hands buried deep in the pockets of her shorts, her chin held high. They walked in silence, with Silver unable to keep himself from looking at her. _I thought I’d never see her again,_ he admitted to himself. The humid night, combined with the fiery tones of the streetlights, made the moment so surreal. Perhaps he was dreaming, and Lyra was simply of his imagination.

“So, you had your violin case earlier today,” Lyra remarked, dragging Silver into reality. “You’re still playing?”

“No, I just carry it around to look cool,” he muttered, earning a snort from Lyra. “Yeah, I do.”

“Cello?”

“Not so much, but I still have it,” he responded. He heard raucous shouts in the distance; it was summer, there surely was some sort of party going on somewhere in one of the sestieri. How often had Giovanni quipped that “real Italians” spent their summer evenings drunk and their mornings regretting their decisions?

Lyra shot him a smile as they walked along. “That makes me really happy to hear.” After a moment, she added, “I’m so amazed that I found you here, of all places. It’s crazy. This is such a big world, and yet here you are.”

“I’m here. In Italy. Not really a stretch. This is the country where I was born and all,” he said, his tone more acerbic than he intended.

“Well, I didn’t know where you were,” she said rather blithely. Silver looked away, feeling guilty. Lyra paused mid-stride, frowning at him. He came to a halt, feeling pinned under her gaze. She opened her mouth, a question on her lips, but she shut it quickly and sighed.

When she didn’t immediately begin a sentence again, he asked, “Were you going to say something?”

“Nah. Not now,” she said, a little too quickly for Silver’s liking. “Kinda forgot, I guess. Anyway, where are you living? What are you doing?”

“I…” he trailed off. Silver wondered what to say, how to say it. His life since moving back to Europe had been…well, troubling, to say the least. He decided to fill her on his present activities; he didn’t want to know what she would think of what his life had been before that.

“I’m living on my own here. I rent a room. I have a job in an all-night café. I play violin for extra cash. I work odd jobs here and there. It isn’t glamorous, by any stretch.”

“Everyone does what they need to do to get by,” Lyra remarked. “I’m just glad you’re still playing.”

He looked at her. “What are you doing?”

“I’m going to college in the fall. I kept up with piano, and now I’m going to school for piano performance. I got a pretty nice scholarship, too,” she said, her voice warm with a smile. “I was working in a café myself before this summer. I put in my notice before coming here, though. I worked there through high school. I make a mean mocha, if that means anything in life.”

Before Silver could respond, Lyra paused. There was a bench facing the canal, and she waved him towards it. “Let’s sit. I get distracted, walking and talking.”

“Isn’t that how you broke your arm in fourth grade?” Silver asked dryly.

“Coming from the guy who rolled his ankle trying to walk and play violin, that’s rich,” Lyra responded dryly.

“Yeah, but I didn’t break anything,” he reminded her, which earned him a good-natured scoff.

They settled themselves on the bench, Lyra gazing out over the canal waters. The lamplight cast her face in stark angles, highlighting high, round cheekbones he never remembered her having. She angled herself towards him and smiled. “You’ll never believe the sort of stuff that’s happened to me in the past few years. Life got…exciting, you know?”

 _I’m glad it did for someone, I guess._ “How so?” Silver asked.

“Well, I already told you about college. But so much changed at home!” Lyra bounced her legs twice, as if for emphasis. “Mom started dating again when I was thirteen. She got married last year, to a dude she met a few years ago, and he’s great for her. He makes her so happy. I even convinced mom to get cats. We have Cinders and Pigeon.” She peered sidelong at him, her eyes reflecting the lantern lights. “I started learning other instruments.”

He raised his eyebrows. “What happened to piano or bust?”

“I’m going to college for it,” she reminded him. “But I picked up the trumpet, and I’m still awful at it but it’s fun. Started learning guitar, started taking classical voice lessons. I just…couldn’t get enough,” she admitted with a nervous laugh. “Music has been everything since I…” she trailed off.

Silver noticed a strangely wistful expression pass over her face before she forced it away with a sheepish grin. “Anyway, I’ve been able to do a lot. I’ve been in orchestras. Bands. Marching bands. Musicals. Operas. Choirs. All sorts of ensembles.” She tapped each word out on a finger, eventually folding her hands back into her lap. “I’ve met so many great people. Made lots of friends. I have so many stories to tell, but...I feel like I’m talking your ear off,” she admitted with a laugh.

He shrugged. The way she talked was soothing. She looked and sounded different, but the passion in her voice was the same, unwavering and jovial. “I would have said something if it was annoying me,” he said

“Seriously, just tell me to shut up if I’m being too obnoxious,” she said, waving her hand at him. “I just feel so lucky tonight.”

Silver gazed out over the canal. _Lucky?_ She felt _lucky_ to have run into him? Guilt thrummed low in his gut; he wasn’t truly happy that she was here. Yes, he’d missed her. He’d hated being torn away without a proper goodbye. _The one true friend I’ve ever had._ Given everything that he’d experienced and everything he’d done…what would Lyra even think, if he divulged it all now? “How so?” he asked quietly.

Lyra leaned her elbow against the back of the bench, her hand propped in her hair. More strands fell loose from her bun and whisked into her eyes. Behind the loose hair, her eyes captured his. “You disappeared. I was so sad and worried for so long,” she admitted. “I’ll be honest. I searched for you on social media. Facebook. Twitter. MySpace, even. I searched your given name. I searched Silver. I never found you. I had accepted you were lost forever, honestly. Now you’re here, and I know you’ve lived on. I’m here for one summer in one city. I may never have seen you, but I ran into you. I’m so lucky.”

Silver felt his face grow hot. He broke eye contact and gazed down at his hands. They were so pale, ghostly shapes in the half-darkness. “I’m sorry you worried.”

“I know it was Giovanni’s doing,” she said. His name—also Silver’s given name—brought a bitter taste to his mouth. “I didn’t blame you. I wasn’t angry at you.”

He crossed his legs and folded his arms. “Let’s…not talk about Giovanni,” he said, feeling his jaw tense. “At all.”

“Oh.” She gave a nod, the warmth in her expression faltering. “Um. Okay.”

He stood up. Silver needed to move. Nervous energy swamped his body, making his toes twitch. “Come on. I said I’d show you something cool. Let’s go sightsee.”

Lyra stood up hesitantly. She gave a nod. “Right. I…” she trailed off. “I haven’t been around nearly as much as I’d like to have been. Let’s do this!”

She fell into step easily beside him. Her renewed enthusiasm was soothing. The tenseness in Silver’s shoulders eased, and he pushed his hands into his pockets. He was still unsettled. She was _here._ He wanted so badly to be happy, to return to joking with her with a smile. But how could he, after everything he’d been through?

It was Lyra’s gaze, burning a hole through his cheek that seemed to rouse him from the dark folds of his thoughts. “Right. So, Lyra…how do you feel about fountains?”

“They’re wet,” she responded.

Silver sighed heavily. “I don’t know what I expected.”

“Only expect stupid shit from me,” she said. It took Silver a moment to realize what she’d said—she had flipped into English. He had grown somewhat out of practice. The late night café he worked in served largely locals—tourists, especially English-speaking ones, were something of a minority.

Mustering his thoughts, Silver slowly responded, “I guess that has, uh. Not…changed, then.”

She peered sidelong at him. “Wow. _Ti manca practica._ You lack practice _,”_ she said, flipping almost seamlessly back into Italian. “I’m almost embarrassed for you. You were fluent by the time you left.”

“Rude,” he remarked, chuckling in spite of himself. She was tactless as always. He wiped his hand across his mouth to hide the expression. “Kind of dickheaded of you to say.”

She laughed in response. “Yeah. I realized that when it came out of my mouth. At least you laughed.”

They exchanged glances, and Lyra covered her mouth with her hand, much as Silver just did, to cover a guffaw of laughter that threatened to peal from her lips. “Oh, God. I missed you. Show me this city of yours, Silver.”

“There isn’t a city in the fountain.”

“You know what I meant!”

 For now, the unease was at bay, as they jibed each other walking up and down the canals. _Kind of like old times,_ he thought as she told him a story about her favorite cat, Cinders, and his escape artist antics, complete with wild gesticulation and affected voices. _She’ll be gone at the end of the summer. Chances are I’ll bore her after a while, anyway. She’ll go back to hanging out with her family all the time. I won’t have to share what happened. It’ll…be okay,_ he convinced himself. _She has so much passion for life. Removing me from the equation again would hardly change that._

 Yet the soft but fiery lilt in her tones and the flash of her teeth whenever she laughed made him realize maybe it would be harder than he thought, to let her forget him again.

He wasn’t sure what to do. Silver succumbed to the night. _Tomorrow morning, I’ll decide,_ he told himself. For the night, he was going to chatter into the darkness with his childhood friend.

Silver supposed he could try to allow himself that.

Just that one, tiny thing, with her.

* * *

**Present day**

The sadness etched deeply into Silver’s features was disheartening for Lyra.

 She was beyond enthralled, wandering Venice with him. Parts of his presence were familiar; he still smelled faintly of cigarette smoke and more strongly of a dark roast coffee and newspaper. Silver had always been the dark figured shadow at her side, letting her do the talking. It was no different in that way now. She bought a soda from a corner store during their walk, Silver as a silent presence as she moved through the transaction and stepped outside again.

 Yet, everything felt different, Lyra mused as she fiddled with the long-gone soda’s bottle cap as they sat on the edge of a fountain. Silver had thawed with her. The chilly, belligerent child she had met years ago had become her go-to person, the sort of friend she’d bother first over any other. _He’s frozen again,_ she thought to herself.

She had told him stories about herself. One after another, goaded on by the occasional quirk of a smile on his lips or the occasional question.

“So this one jazz director I had tried to put me on first trumpet once, and I'm the worst trumpet player in the world…”

“One time Mom and I took a bus down the coast, and it blew a tire in the middle of a torrential downpour…”

“When I was fifteen, I had mono and couldn’t go to homecoming, so my friends Ethan and Kris decided to bring me some McDonald's fries…”

Her stories peppered the night, but Silver offered little in return. He’d always had a story to fill her in with or an idea that somehow related. She could barely get him to shut up during the later years of their friendship. _What happened after Giovanni took him and fled?_ Lyra thought, spinning the bottle cap on the marble of the fountain. Silver was sitting beside her. He gazed up at the light-polluted sky, his hair and clothes getting plucked at by the breeze.

“It’s a gorgeous night,” Lyra commented, following his cue to peer at the sky. Only the brightest stars could be seen, faint pinpricks through the ruddy blackness. “I’m not really much of a night owl, but I’m happy I’m out here.”

“Good,” he said.

She smiled at him, but he was focused on the sky. His brow, slightly furrowed, seemed to be a natural expression on his face. The corners of her lips dropped, and she peered at the cobbles between her toes. Her eyes picked out her chipped nail polish on her toenails and the fraying straps of her sandals, but her mind raced. How could she ask what had happened? He seemingly bristled at personal questions.

But what was she if she didn’t try even briefly to address it?

“Silver?” she said quietly.

His eyes flicked toward her. “Yeah?”

“If…if you don’t want to talk about things that happened,” she hedged carefully, watching his light eyes for any sign of trouble, “it’s okay. You’re just very quiet, and things weren’t like this before.”

“Yeah. They weren’t,” he agreed. His expression was flat and unreadable, his tone neutral. “A lot has changed.”

Lyra sighed. She fiddled with the bottle cap and murmured, “I mean, it has for me, too—”

He laughed, the sound harsh. Lyra recoiled, nearly dropping the bottle cap. “It’s a really charmed life you lead, Lyra. Like before.”

His words stung; Lyra physically recoiled, as though she’d been slapped. “Excuse me?” she said, turning toward him. “What was that?”

“It doesn’t sound like a lot has changed for you at all, aside from getting older,” he remarked. His eyes met hers, bordering on unfriendly. “You’re a lot like how I remember you. Just older. Less childish.”

She frowned. “Well, you’re not much like I remember.”

“Because—”

“‘A lot has changed,’” Lyra quoted bitterly. She tossed the bottle cap at the ground, watching it bounce off the pavement. Silver watched, too, as it rolled in a circle at her feet. “Yeah, I get it. A lot has changed. You’ve said it in as many ways. I just wish you were as happy to see me as I am to see you.”

“I am happy,” he insisted.

She shook her head and snagged the bottle cap, examining its newly-acquired dent. “You really aren’t.”

“Why are you getting so worked up?” he asked, his tone terse.

Lyra huffed a heavy sigh, shoving her hands in her pockets. “It’s obvious you’ve been through a lot. We just used to tell each other everything. I always wanted to just pick it up again, where we left off. If I found you again, that was,” she added. She looked up and caught his gaze, still unreadable. “It was really hard, losing you. I’ve found you again, and I’m really glad that I did. But please answer my question. Are you honestly happy I’m here?”

He scoffed. “I said I was.”

“It really doesn’t feel that way.” Her hands clenched into fists in her pockets to calm and steady herself. “I was hoping we could keep being friends. I never stopped thinking of you as one.”

“The fact that you thought you could barge in and try to pick up where we left off is kind of funny. Rather naïve, too,” Silver remarked.

A cold weight grew in her stomach at his words. She swallowed—her throat felt thick and warm—and looked away from him. Why was he being so rude? What had she done wrong? “Uh. Wow. That’s actually really hurtful, Silver,” Lyra said, her voice low. She rose to her feet and pushed her hair, falling loose from its bun, out of her face. “It’s been nice to walk around with you tonight, but I really think it’s time I head home. I can see you don’t really want me here.”

She began to walk away, tears threatening to well up. “Lyra,” Silver started, but she held up a hand, a weak wave.

“Bye Silver. See you around,” she said, in English. Once the shadows of a nearby swallowed her, she allowed the tears to fall. _All of those years of hoping I’d find him and we’d be friends again, and he’s just an ass. Go figure._

She returned home and entered, like a ghost. Locking the door and drifting up the stairs, she came to her bedroom in a haze. Lyra stripped off her sweaty clothes in the dark, pulled on an old t-shirt from the day before, and collapsed onto her bed. She flicked the fan on at her bedside before burying her face in her pillow. “This fucking sucks,” she muttered to herself, reverting to English.

Lyra prayed sleep would come soon and let her forget the disappointment that gripped her stomach in a tight knot.

* * *

**Present Day**

The bottle cap lay on the ground, forgotten by Lyra when she stormed off—just as forgotten as Silver’s plan to simply enjoy the evening with his former friend.

Silver gazed at the crumpled metal. Water slapped against the sides of canals, and someone singing in heavily accented French in a nearby bar to the soft strumming of an acoustic guitar. It was all that he could hear. His heart hammered in his chest. His face burned. _I didn’t think she’d take off like that,_ he thought. He looked at his hands, tightly clenched around his knees.

 _This is what you wanted, right? To be left alone?_ Silver told himself. _So stop feeling so guilty. You just pushed it sooner than you wanted to._

His throat ached, nonetheless. He massaged it. Lyra’s expression had spoken volumes, more than her words did.

Silver sighed heavily and gathered his hair in one hand. With the other, he tied it into a knot at the nape of his neck. Guilt smoldered within him, but what could he do at this point?

“I didn’t mean to hurt her,” he told himself, but he knew it was a lie. He had meant to hurt her and drive her away, the minute she had tried pushing him for his story again. It wasn’t hers. How would she even understand in the slightest?

Why couldn’t she simply accept that the past was behind them? Why did she have to push?

Silver ached and started walking toward home. _Let go of the guilt,_ he told himself, but something told him that it would pulse and writhe within him for days. _If she wants to live in the past, then it shouldn’t matter to you that you snapped at her._

Yet it mattered, and as he unlocked the gate outside of the building he rented from, the guilt deepened. Lyra was so happy to see him, her face so open and sweet. Why had he wrenched that away from her with no more than a few sentences?

“I need to apologize, then, I guess,” he muttered to himself as he locked the gate behind him. He paused at it, staring at the stucco and brick that comprised the buildings of his street.

He knew where she lived, but Silver would give her time and space, as well as for himself. The pain in her face haunted him. As he entered the building and travelled upstairs to his apartment, Silver wondered if she’d forgive him for being so blunt for the first night they’d seen each other in years.

He had no idea where they would go from there. He didn’t want to talk about the past, and it was the entirety of what she had talked about. What common ground was there anymore? Could they continue being friends, knowing the wildly different routes they had been taking in Silver’s absence?

Silver just didn’t know.

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, the parts of this story that are set in the past are more or less just there to show what their friendship was more than anything. I'm not attempting to draw parallels at this point in the story. This chapter is one of the only ones that does NOT have a flashback of some sort in it, if you hadn't noticed! There will be one or two more like this, but most will have at least one.
> 
> Also, the formal introduction of Silver as a narrator. Haha.
> 
> I feel like the song heard off in the distance had the same vibe as this, but probably wasn't this song:
> 
> Eiffel - A tout moment la rue: https://youtu.be/bGmve14vXGQ?t=50s


	4. Chapter 4

**6 Years Ago**

**-**

“Hey, Silver?”

“Hmm?”

A storm was rolling in; with lawn chairs set up on the roof of the apartment, Lyra and Silver watched the clouds roll by, towering gray armadas bringing forth uncustomary cool breezes for the summer. Her mother had told them to come in the minute they heard thunder; both had pretended to ignore the low rumbles in the distance. A cloud floated by, resembling some sort of crouched cat with a crooked tail; it piqued Lyra’s attention, and for a moment she became engrossed with the sight of it. She felt Silver’s curious gaze, and she remembered her question. “Silver, what’s it like to have a dad who’s always around?”

“Probably the same as always having a mom that’s around,” he said. He had on a pair of sunglasses he’d borrowed from her, neon yellow cat-eyes that absolutely did not suit his face. “I never knew my mom.”

“Yeah. They have to do a lot of everything, I think, when it’s just them,” Lyra admitted. She stretched a hand up, as if to touch the clouds. “Even when they were together, Mom did everything. Dad was always gone for work.”

He peered over at her, and Lyra started giggling. Irritated, he gestured with one hand, the movement brusque. “What? What is it?”

“You look like a bug,” she told him. “You’re trying to be so serious, but you’re like a beetle or something right now.”

“Shut up,” he ordered, yet he pushed the atrocious sunglasses even further up onto his nose. With far less vitriol, he added, “Before you called me a bug or whatever, I was going to ask why you asked me that.”

Lyra shrugged. She now looked at her hands, covered in grime and bandages that indicated a fun, fruitful summer. “Dad’s not gonna visit me at all this summer. He and Mom fought on the phone earlier.”

“Didn’t he do that at Thanksgiving, too?” Silver asked.

“Yeah. It’s been a hard year at his job, I think. Mom told me to try to understand, but I don’t think she’s being understanding. She was really, _really_ mad. That’s why I said we should come up here earlier,” Lyra said. She stood up and scooted her chair closer to Silver’s and lowered her voice. “Don’t tell her this ever, but I don’t care that Dad isn’t coming. After a few days with him I just wanna hang out with my mom and my friends again.”

Silver looked at her in surprise. His eyebrows lifted comically behind the neon frames. “Really?”

She nodded. “Yup. I’d rather spend time with Mom or you or any of the neighborhood kids.”

“Huh. I bet that would hurt his feelings,” Silver remarked, turning away from her. She could almost sense the aura of deviousness rising from him as he added, “You should tell him that.”

“Silver! That’s so mean!” Lyra gasped, whacking his arm hard.

He whacked her back, not as hard. “Hitting is mean!”

Lyra felt her cheeks start to puff out, but she stopped herself. _You look four when you do that,_ she reminded herself. “You deserved it! I’m not gonna be mean to my dad!”

“Fine! I’ll go bully my dad, then!” Silver declared, jumping to his feet.

“Why do _either_ of our parents need to get bullied?!”

Silver was about to retort when a loud clap of thunder sounded. Simultaneously, they both gathered up their lawn chairs and darted for the door. “We’ll continue this later but right now I don’t wanna die!” Lyra declared.

“It’s one little clap of thunder!” Silver retorted.

Once inside the stairwell, which smelled strongly of rust, Lyra turned to him with raised eyebrows. “One little clap of thunder? Dude. You were ahead of me the whole time.”

Silver blushed furiously. “Maybe you’re just slow.”

Lyra wanted to argue, but she simply shrugged and trotted down the stairs. “Whatever you say, Silver.”

“I _wasn’t_ scared!” He insisted, trotting down after her. “I don’t get scared!”

She laughed, in spite of her earlier pensiveness. “If you say so!”

His fiery, puffed-up arguments fell on deaf ears, and Lyra ignored his declarations of fearlessness with purpose. Such was the nature of their friendship, but Lyra also didn’t feel nearly as close with any of her other friends.

Back in her apartment, Lyra began to watch the rain started to fall outside, but Lyra felt warm and happy.

 _He’s totally a scaredy cat. But he’s my best friend,_ she decided, watching a raindrop trickle down he window. _Stupid Silver._

* * *

**Present Day**

_Drip. Drip. Drip._

Lyra woke up to the sound of rain, feather-light and arrhythmic on the roof. Groggy, she peered over at the alarm clock sitting on the night stand, determining that it was before seven in the morning. She groaned and rolled over; she had gotten home no more than a few hours prior and had slept for even less.

As her bleariness subsided, the previous night had flooded back to her. Her stomach twisted, and she rolled onto her back. Lyra watched out the window, barely dampened by the rain, and grumbled, “Stupid, _stupid_ Silver.” Realizing she wouldn’t get back to sleep as the rain fell harder and faster, she slipped out of bed and decided to start her day.

What was she to do from here? She’d been fixated on Silver and trying to find him for a while now, and he wanted nothing to with her—or if he did, he certainly didn’t show it well. _Naïve? Really?_ She thought as she stripped her t-shirt. _Plus, if he’s going to say that a lot has happened and refuse to tell me what it is, he maybe shouldn’t talk to me, anyway._

She grabbed the first shirt and shorts she could find, leaving her slightly mismatched in a mustard yellow peasant blouse and red chino shorts. Lyra left her hair down and ignored its curling mass. Before she even considered what to do with herself, she needed coffee. Heady, _heavy,_ dark roast coffee…with copious milk and sugar to make its bitterness bearable. Lyra wasn’t about to kid herself and pretend as though she could stomach black coffee.

In the kitchen, she was surprised to see her aunt already awake, making eggs in a pan. She rarely was up early; the shop didn’t open until eleven. “Lyra, good morning,” she said. The wan light, in a kitchen painted in cool blues, made her aunt look pale and sickly.

Lyra raised her eyebrows. “You’re up early.”

“You, too. You were out quite late,” she said. Gesturing to the eggs in her pan, she sighed. “I have craved eggs horribly this entire pregnancy. It’s such an American food and far more filling than any breakfast I’ve ever wanted to eat. Any time I visit your mother, she makes them for me. Not to mention the bacon, too. Now I’m pregnant and eggs are all I want to eat.”

Lyra smiled. She settled herself into a seat at the kitchen table. “That’s funny. Mom told me she craved granita when she was pregnant with me.”

“That had to be a hard find in the states,” her aunt remarked. She flipped her eggs and glanced over at Lyra, her eyes questioning. “You look sad this morning. What happened?”

Lyra shrugged. She gazed out onto the street, watching water puddle on awnings. “Silver was not nearly as excited to see me as I was to see him.”

“Oh.” For a while, the kitchen was quiet, minus the sounds of her scraping eggs onto a plate and her movements. She maneuvered herself carefully into a chair and perched herself on it with her breakfast. Lyra was surprised to feel a hand reach across the table and touch hers. “If it makes you feel better, I wouldn’t shut up about how excited I was about your visit over this summer. My friends probably wanted to throttle me over the past couple of months,” she said.

Lyra smiled back at her. Her aunt was far too kind. “Thank you.”

She settled back in her chair, folding her hands over her protruding belly. “That said, explain to me what happened. I’m surprised he wouldn’t be excited to see you, especially if you were close friends.”

Lyra recounted the night, continuing as she brewed a pot of coffee, and finishing as she stirred in milk and sugar. She sat back in the chair with her mug, overwarm between her palms. She peered into the creamy brownness. Her face was reflected to her, almost featureless in its opacity. “So that’s that. I just felt like he was humoring me.”

“Hmm.” Her aunt had finished her eggs now. The bowl sat forgotten off to the side, venturing into her uncle’s favorite spot at the table. “But he came here to visit you. He could have taken off and never seen you again in a city like this. If he truly didn’t want to see you, then he could have avoided you. I think somewhere inside of him, he was happy to see you.”

“If he called me naïve in such a rude tone, was he really?” Lyra muttered. She sipped at her coffee and sighed. “What do I do about this? I had become really fixated on the idea of finding him, the minute I saw that red hair a few days ago—”

“You saw him a few days ago?” Her aunt clarified.

“Yeah. I saw red hair, and I became fixated on this idea of meeting him again. It has come up before. But then I caught wind of a ‘weird guy’ with long red hair in all-black when I was out shopping yesterday and something told me it had to be him for real this time,” Lyra remarked. She gazed out the window, at a sleepy street dampened by rain. “I was so excited. Now I’m sad.”

Her aunt was silent for a moment. She drummed her fingers on the table, drawing Lyra’s attention to her. “I’m getting a thought here, and I want to run it by you. I don’t want you to take anything I say in a bad way.”

Lyra nodded slowly. “Okay.”

“So, when you were hanging out, you said he didn’t talk much about himself, right?”

“Right.”

“You tried to connect with him by talking about your shared past a bit and about yourself,” she said. “I don’t think he cares to talk about the past.”

Lyra shrugged. “I didn’t know what else to do. I felt him slipping away. Like we didn’t have common ground.”

Her aunt adjusted herself in the chair, the wood groaning as she did so. “You’re both different people than you were then, even if he feels that you haven’t changed. Tell me one person you know who’s the same as they were when they were twelve.”

“My friend Ethan, but honestly? He’s been a menace from the day he was born,” Lyra responded, her tone jovial. She sighed and rubbed at her forehead. “I’m kidding. I don’t know anyone who’s like what they were when they were twelve.”

“Right.” Her aunt settled back and combed her hair from her eyes with her fingers. “So, Lyra. I think you may have focused too much on things you once shared. He’s clearly uncomfortable with his past, and you may have hit a nerve.”

Lyra gazed out the window. Her stomach was uneasy. _You may have hit a nerve._ Guilt settled in, realizing how uncomfortable she likely had made him last night. “I told him I wouldn’t ask about his past.”

“But he could tell it was what you wanted to do. Knowing you, you were giving off an air of concern and curiosity, and it made him nervous,” her aunt said gently. “I think that if you want to connect with him, you need to not focus on the past. You’re different people. Find new common ground if you value him and your former friendship with him. His treatment of you was not considerate, but try and see it from his side.”

“What do you think his side is?” Lyra asked, stirring her coffee. “In your opinion.”

“Whatever happened between your friendship with him then and your attempt to reconnect now was probably quite difficult. Your probing may not be as welcome, in his eyes,” she responded. “You want to try to know Silver again, right?”

Lyra nodded. “Yeah. I think so.”

“Then take it slow. If you value his side of things, he may begin to value yours as well.” She stood up with a groan and carried her dish to the sink, beginning to wash it. “Also, don’t think I’m telling you that you need to heal this person or fix him. But you may have to play by his rules, at least starting off, to get to know him again. Does that make sense?”

“I…think so.” Lyra sighed.

Her aunt raised her eyebrows. “What’s troubling you?”

“Is it worth it to try to play to him if he was already terrified to see me from the start?” Lyra asked. She stood and paced about the kitchen, her coffee abandoned and steaming alone at the table. “Before I as much as started talking to him tonight, he seemed sad that he’d even met me. As if…” A slow realization dawned on Lyra. She paused in her pacing and braced her palms on the counter, her jaw tight.

“What, Lyra?” her aunt asked, concerned.

Silver’s past wasn’t just painful to talk about. There were things that he was _ashamed_ of. Why else would it be so awful to talk about? He’d never minced words, even as a child. He was honest about things that had happened in his life, telling her about where he and Giovanni had lived prior to moving to the states. _Whatever happened with him had to be awful,_ she thought, her brow furrowing. Remembering that her aunt had spoken to her, Lyra lifted a shoulder up and down, the movement slight. “I think Silver has things that happened in his past that he’s ashamed of. It’s just a hunch, but even if he’s changed, he was always straightforward. Something happened that not even he is okay with.”

“I see,” her aunt said, her tone encouraging Lyra’s mouth to continue running.

“Like, okay. Just.” Lyra huffed a sigh and recollected her thoughts. She gathered her hair into a ponytail in one hand and massaged at the back of her neck with the other. “Silver’s never had an awesome life. He told me when we were kids that his dad rarely let them stay somewhere for more than a year. When we were ten or eleven, he told me that he’d never been in any one place as long as he’d been in the states. He told me that he never met his mom, and his dad did little to connect with him. I believe it. When we were friends, he was always at my place and spending time with me and my friends, right? He’d lived so many places already. Florence. London. Barcelona. Places I can’t even remember or pronounce. All over Europe and Northern Africa, honestly. But he told me about _all_ of it. He told me when…” she trailed off. “When he trusted me. He doesn’t trust me anymore. I have to regain that. Oh, God, how? Where? Where’s this guy?”

Lyra’s aunt half-chuckled as Lyra’s pacing resumed. “You’ve just had a lot of thoughts and feelings, haven’t you?”

“Yeah! I have. God, I want to…” she sighed. “I want him to trust me again. But I think you’re right, and I have to do it on his terms.”

“Well, you seem to have been lucky to run into him here. I think you’ll run into him again before long, huh?” her aunt jibed, her tone gentle.

“I sure fucking hope so,” Lyra retorted. She realized how poor her language was and clapped a hand over her mouth, earning laughter from her aunt. “Sorry. Bad habit.”

“I wasn’t going to judge.” Her aunt gestured toward her room. “I’m going to get dressed. You’re free to hang out in the shop today. Set your keyboard up down there if you want. With the weather, it’ll be slow, but you may not want to go out in it. The rains here are relentless”

Lyra didn’t want to practice. Her fingers weren’t itching; her feet were. She wanted to run and find Silver again. _Where would he even be, though? I didn’t think to ask where he worked. I could find him playing violin, but in this rain? I doubt it._ Instead of voicing her thoughts, she gave her aunt a rather taut smile and replied, “Sounds like a good idea.”

“I know you don’t believe that, but thanks for humoring me,” her aunt said dryly.

Later in the morning, the rain hadn’t ceased, and Lyra was toting her keyboard down into the shop. It was a tiny, dusty space packed wall-to-wall with local oddities and antiques. Her aunt burned incense in it, lending it a swarthy aroma that would oftentimes clog Lyra’s nostrils; nonetheless, the shop never seemed to lack for visitors, whether or not the scent was off-putting. Lyra set her keyboard up in a back corner, slightly behind a display of porcelain dolls, and plugged the keyboard into a power strip.

“Do you really need it in Venice?” her mother had asked, as Lyra had feverishly checked the airline’s website to see if she was allowed to bring it with her.

“Uh, yes. I can’t go without practice for an entire summer before I go to college,” Lyra had insisted.

As she tapped middle C now, testing the acoustics of the shop, Lyra almost resented her keyboard. It was rain and cluelessness that kept her in the shop, but it felt like an anchor and a diversion from what was currently bothering her. _You have all summer to practice. You should be out finding Silver,_ she chastised herself. Rain? What rain? She surely could tear across Venice on foot in this downpour!

Thunder clapped. She began her warmups.

Her aunt was settled at the front counter of the shop, paging through a romance novel. Her uncle was somewhere upstairs, his heavy footsteps occasionally punctuating Lyra’s playing. The rain drummed against the pavement outside. The sign on the door outside read “OPEN”. It all contributed to a feeling of restlessness in Lyra, as she dug through the tote bag she had dragged downstairs to work on a new Chopin.

She began to work on it, playing through it at half the tempo it was supposed to be at. It was sleepier and heavier than it was supposed to sound. Chopin’s pieces, in Lyra’s opinion, always held an air of melancholy; the slow tempo exaggerated the feeling. _I don’t think I’ll work on this piece for long today,_ she thought as she paused and marked a crescendo with her pencil. _I won’t be able to get it up to a speed where it isn’t sad._

Not long after she thought that, her aunt requested, “Would you consider playing something more upbeat?”

“I have some Mozart I could work on,” Lyra responded.

“Anything other than Mozart? He puts me to sleep,” her aunt responded, her tone cheeky.

“Well…” Lyra dug through her bag. “A few Holst transpositions, a few Brahms. Prokofiev. Liszt. Some jazz, the majority of which is Ellington for jazz band auditions—”

“Whatever isn’t depressing. Or Mozart,” her aunt insisted.

Lyra laughed. “I can figure something out, but you pretty much just shot down Brahms and Prokofiev.”

She dug through her music and grew increasingly frustrated. It seemed most of her music was melancholy, written in minor keys with brooding motifs. Lyra finally settled on a contemporary jazz piece, one she had been working on in tiny spurts over the past two years. It reminded her of water droplets rolling down the window—perfect for the dismal weather. She set it up in the stand and ran her fingers through its various scales and modes before setting to work on it.

She played the first chord, hesitant. The sound rang pearly through the shop. Lyra eased into the next chord and grinned as it came out, radiant. She worked through the opening chords and came to more technical playing. Her fingers flipped through syncopated runs, picking up tempo as she went. Her foot tapped as the song’s delicate notes dropped through the air rhythmically. “ _Come la pioggia,”_ she muttered to herself. _Like the rain._

She came to the first repeat and circled back to the beginning. Lyra’s worries melted away, and she through her energy into it. She emphasized its Latin rhythms with a flourish. She wished she had foot pedals, but this particular keyboard didn’t have any. Sacrificing ornamentation for practicality had been a necessity while Lyra toted her belongings through customs. Not to mention anything other than a keyboard with a folding stand would have been cumbersome or banned from even being put on the plane.

Nonetheless, her music bubbled forth and filled the shop with a content aura.

“I like this song. Keep playing it,” her aunt called over the music.

“There’s plenty of it. The score is fifteen pages with lots of repeats,” she responded.

“Whatever that means. I don’t read music.”

Lyra smiled to herself and hit another repeat.

The morning passed, her mood lighter. She worked almost exclusively on jazz, playing through her Duke Ellington repertoire and through a few cheerier Liszt pieces. The rain continued to fall, but Lyra’s spirits had lifted. Whatever would become of her friendship with Silver was not up to her, she was beginning to understand. _It takes two to tango, and if he doesn’t want to dance, I shouldn’t force him to, right?_ Lyra told herself. _If I see him again, I’ll put the ball in his court._

Even with that thought process, her feelings about Silver were unsettled. She wanted to find him, but it wasn’t up to her to reinitiate anything. _The ball is in his court,_ she reminded herself, but she worried regardless.

The next three days continued in a similar fashion. The rain didn’t let up, nor did her unsettled feelings relent.  Lyra practiced in the shop, playing through all of her pieces and riffing around, just to pass time. She would head go upstairs and make lunch or run to her aunt’s favorite café to grab some of her favorites.

Lyra knew she was on edge more than usual. On the third day, Lyra brought back sausage and cheese crostini. She set the Styrofoam container in front of her aunt on the counter upon returning inside. “It’s so damp out,” she muttered as she slipped out of her rain jacket.

“June can be pretty rainy,” her aunt told her. “I’d like to think all this rain will cool things down, though. It’s been far warmer than usual. 28 degrees is almost unheard of in the summer, especially this early.”

Lyra pulled up a stool on the other side of the counter and pulled out her purchase. Her aunt raised her eyebrows. “Just a salad?”

“I’m not really hungry. But I figured I should eat something,” Lyra remarked.

Her aunt sighed. She bit into a crostino while Lyra poked at the salad. “You know, your mother would lose her appetite over boys, too. Mom always reminded me about that when I’d get into a fight with a boyfriend.” She adopted an austere expression, waving her fork around angrily. “‘Adrianna, no man is worth that! No man should have that power over you! Eat your bread and drink your wine, child!’ We agreed on nothing, but she had a point.”

“I’m not in love with him,” Lyra clarified. “He just meant a lot to me, and I wish we could get back to where we were.”

Her aunt drummed her fingers on the counter. “Is he worth the trouble, though? If you want to reconnect, that’s fine. But consider what he said to you and how he said it. It was unkind.”

“I just feel that…somewhere under that, he wants to know me again. But I’ll respect his decision. If I don’t see him in the next few days and have a chat with him, I’ll move on,” she said, but there was no certainty in her voice. “At least I know he’s alive and living somewhere in the world, you know? Even if those are all the answers I get.”

“Wise words, but stick to them. I don’t want you to waste your time on someone like that if he says those kinds of things and never apologizes,” Adrianna said.

“I don’t suppose I’d want me to, either,” Lyra admitted.

After lunch, the rain seemed to slow and then let up. Lyra watched it as she played through a Mendelssohn piece, her fingers almost robotic in their movements. People began to trickle back onto the walkway in front of the shop again, no longer scurrying in and out of the rain. The clouds were lined silver instead of being dark and heavy like iron, threatening to let the sun come through.

“Look at that. I think it’s the end of all this rain. Lyra, now that it’s not raining, could you go sweep up out front?” Adrianna requested.

She nodded. “Sure thing.”

As Lyra passed the front counter, her aunt handed her the broom handle-first over the counter. She was engrossed in a novel; a large chunk of pages had riffled by since Adrianna had started reading that morning, a sign of a slow day. Lyra opened the door, greeted by a cool breeze. _Adrianna was right about the weather cooling off with the rain,_ she thought. It had been less noticeable when she was darting to and from the café with a piping hot paper bag of crostini under one arm.

Lyra swept in front of the shop. Dirt and mud caked the grout between the cobbles in the sidewalk, which further complicated her job. She groaned and scrubbed at a particular bit of grout. Who would want to enter a shop with a dirty walkway in front of it?

Nonetheless, Lyra tried to attract people who walked by. “ _Ciao!_ ” she’d greet with a wave. Other foreigners, chiefly Americans, would wave back and greet with a “Hi!” or a poorly pronounced “ _Ciao!_ ” of their own. Others ignored her and scurried by. An older woman, possibly French by the accent in her returned greeting, gave Lyra a nod and entered the shop.

As Lyra finished her sweeping, she wiped her brow and leaned against the broom. The walkway at least looked better. Silty mud no longer stained the otherwise light cobbles. Nonetheless, the world seemed gray, with a gray sky above and gray and white buildings all around her. On a sunny day, the street was gorgeous, but between Lyra’s poor mood and the rain, her surroundings looked sad.

Nonetheless, Lyra noticed a spot she’d missed and resumed her sweeping. How else was it going to get done?

She sensed movement behind her. As it drew closer, she called, “ _Ciao!”_ with the hope of drawing in yet another customer.

She heard the footsteps stop, fairly close to her. When the person didn’t speak, she huffed and turned around. “ _Come posso—”_ Lyra froze.

There stood Silver, in black slacks and a white button-down, untucked with the sleeves rolled up. He had said he worked at a café, right? Maybe that was his uniform. His hair was tucked sloppily into a low ponytail, and his eyes were guarded. Lyra felt her stomach tighten into a knot, and she swallowed hard, avoiding his pale, silvery gaze. “Silver,” she acknowledged frostily.

“Yeah. Hi,” he said, in uncertain English. He scratched at his neck with an air of awkwardness. “Do you…do you have a second? I need to talk to you,” he said.

Lyra nodded slowly, brushing an errant tress behind her ear. She felt herself burning; why was this so awkward? Why was his being here so awkward when there were two possible outcomes that she was ready for? “Um, yeah. Somewhere more private, though?”

She led him through the shop. Her aunt made a bizarre face when she Silver and mouthed, “Is that him?” Lyra shot her a quick nod. She felt sweaty, her hands clammy, almost as though she was experiencing performance anxiety.

Up in the apartment, she unlocked the door to the balcony and stepped out. “Out here,” she said to him, still unable to meet his gaze. The balcony was barely large enough to hold two café-style chairs. A planter box hung over the railing, full of trailing vines popping with colorful flowers. Lyra sat in one chair and watched Silver perch himself in the other. He seemed rigid, uncomfortable.

 _I think he knows he messed up,_ she thought, watching his pale, lightly freckled hands latch onto the arms of the chair with an iron grip. _I can’t tell what he’s going to say._

Silver cleared his throat, which made Lyra jump a little bit. “Sorry,” he said, and then sighed. “For a lot of things. Not just that.”

Lyra looked at him. His face was creased deeply with some burden, his eyes dead. Silver continued, “I want you to hear me out before you say anything, okay? I hurt you. I know I hurt you. Your face said it. It still says it. And…I meant it, at that moment. I meant every word of it, and I hate that. I’m sorry I said what I said.”

Lyra’s stomach felt knotted, and she shuffled in her chair. She peered at him, unsure of what to say. He shifted his weight before continuing, “I don’t know what to do.”

“About what?” Lyra said, her throat dry.

“You,” he admitted. He wasn’t looking at her. Her heart hurt. “I never expected to see you again. I didn’t think I should ever see you again. But knowing you were looking for me and worried about me made me think about a lot of things.”

He sighed and swiped his hand across his jaw. Lyra saw dots of stubble along his jawline. “I’m sorry that I’ve never reached out. You said you searched for me, and it wasn’t successful. I’ve looked you up before, too. Your Facebook is really public, just for your information,” he added, his mouth quirking. “You were doing okay, and I’ve…I’ve been through Hell, honestly. I don’t know what else to call it. Even if I reached out, what did we have in common anymore? What were we?”

Lyra felt anger stirring within her. He had looked her up and had never tried to message her? To let her know he was okay? She gritted her teeth, which Silver noticed. He sighed. “I can tell you’re pissed, and you should be. I just…thought it was the best.”

“I definitely don’t think so,” Lyra growled. Noticing his expression, she sighed. “Okay, I said I’d hear you out. So keep talking if you have something to say.”

He sighed. “Last time I looked you up, I was…at a library. I wasn’t at home, because I didn’t have a home then.”

“Are you saying you were homeless?” Lyra interrupted, frowning.

He nodded, the motion slow. “Yeah. It was two years ago.”

“I’m sorry I keep interrupting, but why were you homeless? What did your father do?” she questioned.

Silver’s eyes flashed. “Stop interrupting or I won’t keep talking.”

“I apologized for it,” she muttered.

He settled back in his chair and crossed his legs. Silver peered over the balcony as he said, “In your pictures, you looked happy. Your posts were happy. I wasn’t happy. I’m still not happy. I didn’t want to intrude on your happiness. I was homeless and angry. I prayed that you had forgotten about me, but I guess that wasn’t the case.”

He sighed and dropped his head into his hands. “I’m so sorry. I shouldn’t even be saying this. This is too much to tell other people. It’s lame.”

Lyra regarded him. What was she to do? Embrace him? Slap him and kick him out? Lyra’s emotions were a confusing swirl. She looked at the palms of her hands, as though she had written notes on how to deal with this situation, and sighed. “I don’t know what to say. I came into this ready to say a lot of things, but I don’t think I was expecting any of that. If anything, I don’t think I expected to see you here at all.”

“I didn’t know if I was going to even say anything. I walked up to the shop, and you were already there. Your back was to me. I could’ve kept walking,” he said, into his hands, “but I didn’t.”

“No, you didn’t,” she agreed. Lyra sighed and gazed out over the street. At least people were out and about it again, after the rain. “Silver, what are you trying to accomplish here? I don’t know why you’re here.”

He finally looked up out of his hands. His eyes were dry, but his face was contorted with dull pain, a hopelessness that pervaded his features. “I don’t know. I just…” he sighed and shook his head. “Fuck it. I missed you. I missed you every day since Giovanni dragged me out of that apartment without warning. I wished I was in your apartment with you and your mom, with her worrying about how skinny I am and you telling me I was really bad at violin. Because I was. I’m still not that great,” he paused, and he finally met her gaze. “I know you’ve missed me, but I don’t know if you want to know me now. I don’t know that you want to know who I am these days. I’m a loser.”

Lyra felt her throat tighten. For the second time in a week, her eyes started tearing up. She rubbed at them with the heels of her palm, groaning. “You’re still like the dumbest person I know, you know that?”

“Why are you crying? I’m sorry—” he started to say, but Lyra waved her hand.

“You better not be lying, because I feel really bad about everything right now,” she explained. “You don’t have to explain everything to me now, but be honest with me about two things.”

“What?” he asked.

Lyra lifted one finger. “Are you homeless right now?”

Silver shook his head. “No.”

“Okay. Good.” She lifted another finger. “Will you try to be my friend again? Because I really missed you, too, dammit.”

His mouth twitched slightly. “Yeah,” he replied, some of the tension in his face releasing.

She folded both fingers down and set her hands in her lap. A smile touched her lips. “That makes me happy to hear. I won’t push anything. You…you tell me what you want to tell me. On your own terms. We don’t even have to talk about the past if you don’t want to. We can just pretend we’re two strangers who somehow ran into each other in Venice and had a spark of friendship or whatever,” she said, extending her hand.

Silver gazed at her hand, hesitant. “I agree to all of that, but on one condition.”

“Which is?” Lyra prompted.

His eyes flicked up to her. “I’m still Silver. We’re not using my birth name. Ever.”

“No problem to me. Calling you your dad’s name is weird, anyway,” she said.

He rolled his eyes and took her hand, giving it a shake. His palms felt clammy, as though he’d been sweating for hours before this conversation. “Hey, he at least called me Gianni.”

Lyra gave him a lop-sided, shit-eating grin. “Which is super lame.”

“It’s considered a very masculine name around these parts,” he retorted. “What kind of name is Lyra?”

“Not sure, but it sounds British or something,” she retorted. After a moment, she frowned. “What motivated you to come here? ”

Silver’s faint smile became a grimace. He covered his face with his arm and made an unconvincing coughing noise. Lyra realized he was covering up the red spreading across his features. “It was all me. Don’t even suggest that someone could have said something—”

“Oh, so it was somebody!” Lyra remarked, voice snide with triumph. She leaned forward. “A friend?”

He waved a hand around. “Why the fuck are you so nosy?!” Unable to deter suspicion, Silver groaned. “Okay, it was my boss. The guy who owns the café I work at.”

“I guess I’ll have to thank him if I ever meet him,” Lyra remarked with a grin. She settled back in her chair, feeling relief flood through her veins. It almost felt like well-earned exhaustion after a long shift or an intense performance, heavy but somehow satisfying. “So, what are you up to the rest of today?”

“Well, I was going to go play for a while,” Silver said. “You know, for cash.”

Lyra drummed her fingers against the arm of her chair. “Can I come with? I want to hear you play.”

His face started growing red, covered up with yet another fake cough. “Uh. I’m probably not as good a violin player as you are a piano player.”

“I’ll play for you afterwards, back here in the shop. I’ll show you what I’m working on. I’ll…” she trailed off. “I’ll even throw in…I don’t know, are you still a really big gelato fan?”

His eyes flashed, but he looked off. “Maybe.”

“Okay, two scoops wherever. Your pick of place,” she said.

“Fine, okay. But don’t make fun of my playing! I’m not the best, but I wish I was,” he commented as he stood up. Lyra followed suit. “Come on. Prime violin hours are soon and I don’t want my spot to get taken by that fucking juggler.”

“Juggler?” she asked as she led him out of the shop. She waved to her aunt, who seemed bemused by the dialogue between her niece and the redheaded boy leaving her shop. She mouthed “back in a bit!” to her aunt before trotting to catch up with Silver.

“He’s some English guy named Irwin. Hate him. He creeps on the girls and scares away listeners.”

Lyra listened to him talk with a smile. _This feels like how things should be. He’s opening up to me again._ It made the awkwardness worth it, even if it was only for a moment. Silver still looked tired. His body was filled with tension and sadness, but Lyra was hopeful. _Maybe we’ll be friends like before. But different this time,_ she reminded herself. _We’re different people._

She prayed it would work out, somehow.  _I hope this was a boy losing my appetite over._

                                                                                                         

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's been a while since I've updated, so I'm sorry about that! I'm hoping to get another one up fairly soon, but we'll see. 
> 
> Lyra's aunt was finally named. Adrianna. I got tired of saying "her aunt" or "Lyra's aunt" for everything. Might go back and edit her name in in a few places. 
> 
> The guy who runs the cafe is one of the Rocket admins btw. Guess which one and you get a free internet point or a virtual high five from me!
> 
> Anyway, keep your eyeballs peeled for another update, and if it ends up being another couple of months from now....I am so very sorry.
> 
> Til next time!
> 
> -Mars
> 
> Songs referenced in this fic:
> 
> The rain-like jazz piece Lyra was playing was based in my mind off Crazy Blues by Michael Gundlach: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=AtxRk7kzU0Q
> 
> Ellington pieces I was thinking about while writing this:  
> Take the A-Train: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=UGK70IkP830  
> Satin Doll: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=TrytKuC3Z_o  
> Caravan: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=RgUh_EINB5Q
> 
> Liszt pieces:  
> Un sospiro: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=po_a1SmZKLs  
> Liebestraum No. 3: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Y4XEPdYO5mM  
> La Campanella: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=-hCNkp97I30


	5. Chapter 5

**5 Years Ago**

Lyra was gone again. Some kind of summer camp for musicians. What had she said? Two weeks?

Silver felt lonely. There were only two days to go. He hated to admit it, but he didn’t really know what to do without her. She always had a plan. “We’ll go hang out at the park with our friends today,” she’d say. “There’s a really funny movie on TV. Let’s watch it before my mom gets home.”

Without her, he didn’t really know what to do.

Idle and despondent, Silver plucked at strings on the cello, unable to work up the passion he liked to apply to violin. He gazed out the window, down into the street. Late afternoon traffic oozed through like sludge; it was as though someone had set the world in a big gelatin block. In truth, he wasn’t fond of the size of the instrument. It felt as though it was made for someone else’s hands; Lyra loved to pluck chords on it and figure out “walking basslines,” as though it was an upright bass and she was a jazz player.

 _That_ was what her camp was for. Jazz playing. It was close to 32 out—90 in Fahrenheit, he supposed—and he rubbed at his brow. Dad was watching the news in the living room, the one conservative station Lyra’s mother always flicked past with a scoff. He plucked through a chromatic scale on the D-string of his cello. Giovanni didn’t talk much with his son these days. He spent long hours on the phone, terse and speaking in languages Silver didn’t even know.

What was he up to, anyway? It was unclear.

He set the cello against the windowsill and walked out of his room. Dad had the drapes pulled in the living room, forcing darkness that the blue light of the TV bled into. It flickered around his silhouette. He was having a hushed conversation on his cellphone in another language—it sounded a bit like Russian to Silver, but he didn’t know enough to really figure out what he was saying.

He poured himself a bowl of cereal. As he went to add milk to the bowl, Giovanni ceased his chatting and sighed heavily. The phone conversation must have been over. “Gianni,” he said, catching Silver’s attention. He poked his head around the doorway of the kitchen and noticed his father peering over the couch at him. The blue light cast his face in ashy, washed-out hues. His eyes were directed at Silver, but looking almost straight through him. “What are you doing?” He was speaking in his native Italian now.

“Eating food,” Silver said slowly, lifting his bowl to show his father. “What do you think I was doing?”

“I don’t know,” Dad admitted. He turned back toward the TV, his cheekbones casting heavy shadows over his face. Silver realized his face looked like a skull, bony and grave.

Silver uneasily walked over to the couch by his father and sat on the edge of the cushion furthest from him. Giovanni’s eyes flicked to him. “I hear you practicing cello,” he said. “But always plucking.”

“Pizzicato,” Silver said.

“That.” Giovanni flicked channels. An advertisement for men’s bodywash. An explosion. Ants crawling over a log. “Play it like you mean it. It’ll serve you better than the violin.”

Silver bit his tongue, resentment flooding him. _Didn’t you buy me the violin?_ Silver thought to himself. “Okay,” was all he said.

Giovanni’s jaw noticeably clenched. “Your answers are ‘yes, sir’ or ‘no, sir.’ That American girl is teaching you bad habits.” Silver continued to bite his tongue. Giovanni settled on a channel showing a documentary of a deep-sea submarine, its headlights cutting through the murky blackness of an underwater trench. “Considering she’s fatherless, it’s no surprise the girl is as free-wheeling as she is. Without a father, a mother has no way to put her foot down.”

“I don’t have a mother,” Silver retorted, unable to bite his tongue any longer. “What does that make me?”

Giovanni scoffed. “Better off. Mothers and fathers are different. Mothers coddle and comfort. Fathers encourage strength.” He glared at his son. “Don’t talk back to your father. If you were raised by only your mother, you’d be soft.”

Silver ate his cereal in silence, but he was seething. Did his father really think so poorly of Lyra and Norma? They’d been kinder to him than anyone he’d met in his life—not here, not in Italy, not in anywhere else in Europe. When he finished his food, he went and rinsed his bowl and returned to his room. Silver shut the door behind him, something that Giovanni tried to actively discourage during the day. A low, hot anger thrummed within him as he regarded his room.

He put the cello back in its case, tucking the bow into its pocket. He brought out his violin instead, and fueled by his anger, began to furiously play.

* * *

  **Present Day**

Tuning in the middle of a loud crowd was difficult. It took strong focus to combat the contrast of voices, laughter, and languages with the A-note Silver hummed to himself. He dragged his bow across its strings, checking each tone to his A.

He was nervous. Lyra was sitting on a bench no more than ten feet away, her eyes bright and interested. She’d asked him millions of questions about violin and his repertoire on the way down to his usual spot. Who was his favorite composer these days? Did he play many genres? Had he ever played a full-length concerto? Did he compose his own music?

He had answered all of her questions, trying to hide how flustered her questions made him. She was so _buoyant_ and filled with energy. Everything he said was so interesting to her; how long had it been since anyone had interacted with him in a way that included genuine care for his wellbeing and interests? Each of his answers came with follow-up questions and anecdotes.

It felt…good. His mouth quirked at the thought of it, that she was here and still cared. Silver finished tuning and, without further ado, launched immediately into an arrangement of “Libertango.” Most people continued walking past, but within the first few bars, a portly old man walked by and tossed a few crumpled bills into his violin case. He swayed into the ascension of the melody and slowed with the descent at the end of each measure. It was a good, high-energy song to start out with.

He glanced up and nearly stumbled over himself. Lyra was sitting, his captive audience. She was leaning forward, head propped in her hands as she watched him. Her toe was tapping to the beat of his solo, her dark eyes keen. At first, it made him anxious, knowing she was watching so closely. Even if he was playing exceptionally well, it was rare that people stopped to watch him or listen for long. Silver had to look away from her and her encouraging smile at first. When the song finished, she gave him a double thumbs-up. He flashed her a small smile before diving into the next song.

The next hour passed almost in a blur. His songs glowed and burned and danced in a way he wasn’t accustomed to. After his final piece, an Irish folk song, he stopped and decided to call it for the afternoon. He gathered the cash, rolled it up, and tucked it into his pocket. As he began to put away his violin, Lyra trotted over and crouched beside him where he knelt, her eyes bright. “That was really cool! I don’t get why you were talking so negatively about your skills. You sounded better than a lot of college-level players I know.”

“Really?” he said, feeling his brows creep up his forehead. Then, he latched the case. “Don’t say that just to make me feel better.”

“I’m not,” she insisted. “You’re fabulous.”

“Don’t say that,” he mumbled, feeling flustered. “When I play at least a few hours a week, I’m bound to be okay.”

Lyra shrugged. “I know people who’ve played for years who don’t have the tone and technique you do. I can just see that your heart is really in it when you do it. That’s usually what sets people apart. Who’s passionate about it versus who’s doing it just because their parents made them.”

Silver remembered the day Giovanni had pressed the violin into his hand, telling him, “Develop your skill at something.” He remembered his father enforcing practice times, but Silver had taken refuge in it, playing with Lyra and humming melodies to himself.

He cleared his mind of these memories. “Piano and violin are the instrument everyone’s parents want them to play, but then the kids never want to go to lessons.”

“Unless it’s us and we just talk over each other in my living room about our lessons and drive my mother insane,” she said.

Silver rolled his eyes. “Speak for yourself.”

“You love violin, you dork!” she chastised him. He began walking away, with her jogging to catch up. “Gelato time?” she added.

He gave a nod. “Mhm. Time to pay up.”

“Lucky you,” she responded dryly.

Not long after, they were both walking along the street, gelato in hand. Silver had gone for chocolate and hazelnut, savoring the sweetness as they wandered along. Lyra had strawberries and cream. The shop they bought from was one that Silver rarely went to, largely because he didn’t have much cash to spare after rent, groceries, and instrument maintenance. “Good?” Lyra asked him.

“No,” he responded, as he took a huge bite of the chocolate scoop and the cone.

Her eyes narrowed. “I think you’re pulling my leg.”

He shook his head, his expression flat, earning a groan from Lyra. Her annoyance faded quickly as she began eating her gelato again. She finished hers before Silver could finish his. “So…you played your violin for a long time. Want to come hear me play piano? I figure that’s also a fair trade.”

His eyebrows lifted a little. “Yeah, I thought that was the plan.”

“Just checking,” she responded. “Which way should we turn up here to head back to the shop?”

Silver regarded the fork ahead. One way led back to the larger canals; another was a quieter route that would take them away from the swells of foot traffic. He gestured to the way leading away from the canals. “That way,” he said, around a mouthful of gelato.

As they walked, they chatted about mundane things. Lyra wondered what it was like to be on a gondola. Silver had no clue what gondolas were like; he’d never had reason to ride on one. Were there troublesome customers in this field too? Hopefully nothing like cafes, where people fought about the consistency of frappes and the flavor of macchiatos. If people wanted entirely sweet macchiatos, what they were really craving was a latte.

“I don’t even know what those kinds of things taste like. I don’t have interest in them,” Silver admitted as they approached the shop.

“Do you just drink your coffee black?”

He shook his head. “I don’t drink it at all.”

Lyra paused outside the shop, looking at him with surprise. “Really? You…” she trailed off, a perplexed expression crossing her face. “You look like you would drink a sixteen-ounce mug of straight espresso.”

“I don’t drink coffee,” he said with reproach, speculating about whether she was referring to the dark shadows under his eyes or not. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

She rolled her eyes and opened the door. “If you like chocolate, you’d like a mocha. That’s all I’m saying,” she said. Lyra waved to the woman sitting at the counter. Silver noticed he looked much like how he remembered Lyra’s mother, Norma—save for that she was heavily pregnant. She had to be Lyra’s aunt. A novel sat open before her, a tasseled bookmark holding the reader’s place.

“Hello!” she greeted. She regarded Silver with some humor. “So you’re Silver. I’ve heard quite a lot about you.”

“Uh, yes,” he replied to her. There was something about the warm jollity in her expression that put him on edge. She knew too much. “You’re Lyra’s aunt?”

“Call me Adrianna,” she responded. She glanced at Lyra, who was setting up her keyboard. Adrianna gave him a smile before burying her nose into the novel before her. Silver edged his way along the shop. The place was packed with shelves and old furniture, spotless but with a dusty feeling that only came with age; it smelled like aged paper and scrubbed leather as he navigated the shelves to Lyra.

He found Lyra struggling with the outlet nearest her keyboard. “The adapter on this is the stupidest thing,” she quipped in English. A few moments later, the instrument was plugged in with a satisfying click, and she sighed with relief. She hopped back onto her feet and smoothed her hair and her clothes out.

Lyra gestured to a nearby armchair. “Feel free to pop a squat there,” she said. It took Silver a moment to realize that “popping a squat” meant sitting down. He made a mental note to try speaking English with her more as he sat in the chair. Silver set his violin case on the floor beside the chair. As he settled himself more comfortably, Lyra stretched her arms out, linking her fingers to pop her joints, and rolled her shoulders in a way that inspired anticipation, as though she was about to do a triple flip.

“Are you going to tell me what you’re going to play or do I have to guess?” he asked as Lyra pressed a button on the keyboard, bringing it to life.

Lyra settled her fingers in position and tested a note, allowing an A-sharp to ring through the shop. “It’s just a waltz. Something I came up with working on a bunch of Chopin last year,” she explained. No more than half a second after her last word, she launched into the introduction of a frenetic waltz.

Silver wondered if his jaw had dropped, watching the way her fingers flew over the keys, repeating patterns that were simultaneously chaotic and classy. It remained in a major key, and her face was filled with hyperbolic delight as her fingers danced into a repeat. To Silver it sounded expert. _She could go perform a piano concerto with a professional orchestra and sound remotely out of place._

Lyra transitioned into a new section, one that made her expression cool and the wild edge in her eyes soften. She played low block chords with her left hand that filled the shop with a dark, caramelly warmth as her right hand danced through a slower, bittersweet melody. There was longing in it. A small sigh escaped her lips as the melody slipped higher and higher. He wondered what was on her mind when she had composed this section. The melody trickled into something high and lamenting, the lower chords minimalistic now. Her expression contorted with pain as she hit a long chord…and then it was gone in an instant. The frenzied section returned, which she played through even faster than before.

Before Silver could begin to comprehend what had just happened, she struck the last few chords. Her movements were so aggressive that hair fell into her face. The final chord rang through the shop, warm and earthy, and Lyra began to fan herself with one hand and tug at the neck line of her top with the other. “Wowza. That piece is…something. Wish I had pedals for it. You missed out on a really big part of the timbre—”

“You wrote that?” he interrupted.

She nodded, tapping a middle C while adjusting the volume. “I did mention that, didn’t I? I’ve written a few things, but that one’s my favorite.” She had returned to Italian at this point; the change was jarring for Silver, who was getting used to her English again.

“It’s my favorite, too!” Adrianna called. Silver craned his neck to look at her, but she hadn’t lifted her head from her book at all.

Lyra drew his attention back to her with a slight clearing of her throat. “Was it bad? You have a weird look on your face,” she remarked.

He shook his head. “You have such a dinky keyboard, and that still sounded perfect.”

Lyra’s face reddened. She chuckled and rubbed at the nape of her neck, avoiding his gaze. “Is that the first earnest thing you’ve said all day?”

“Maybe,” he responded. He settled back in the chair; the wood creaked with his every movement. “What else do you have?”

Lyra’s eyes lit up, and after a wry little grin flashed across her face, she launched into a crisp tango. Silver lost track of time as she played songs from memory. There was so much _variety_! Waltzes, tangos, sonatinas, film and tv themes. Some were fast, some were slow. Some were lamenting, others jubilant, a few pieces pensive and quiet. Silver knew some of the pieces she played; it was impossible to not recognize Chopin, Debussy, and others by their distinctive styles. Lyra played them all with such intense focus. How did she manage that?

She finished playing a Nocturne and sat back in her seat, wiping at her forehead. Sweat had beaded along her hairline. “That’s about all I know from memory. Plus, some of it probably wasn’t perfect. I know I messed up the chords in the Brahms waltz, and I definitely flubbed a few notes in…” she trailed off when she noticed Silver’s flabbergasted expression. “What?”

“That’s _all_ you know from memory? That was…” he glanced at his watch, and his eyebrows lifted. “That was close to an hour of you playing.”

“Some people know whole pieces that are that long! From memory!” she declared.

“Are those people professional players who are older and world-wise?” he asked.

Lyra’s eyes narrowed slightly. “Maybe.”

He rolled his eyes. “Then ease up. I don’t see why you won’t be able to be at that level in a few years.”

She sighed and stood up. As she stood, she stretched and yawned. With the languid calmness of a housecat post stretch, she maneuvered around her piano and gestured to it. “Do you play at all? I remember…” she trailed off. “I remember you were encouraged at one point.”

Giovanni certainly had encouraged him. He’d hated knowing Lyra was so much better at piano than he was at violin. “Get better than her,” he’d say, to which Silver would say yes sir but roll his eyes in private. He made a few weak attempts at it after leaving America—while living in Krasnoyarsk, then Prague, then Budapest. Silver noticed Lyra’s gaze in the present and he gave his head a shake. “No. Just strings.”

“We should play something together sometime,” she mused.

“Of what?” he asked.

“You played ‘Libertango’ earlier. I know how to play that, too,” she remarked, tapping her forehead. “I bet I could find an arrangement for piano and violin or at least violin with piano accompaniment.”

He nodded. “That’s…” _That’s intimidating as hell,_ he thought to himself, but out loud, he said, “I think that would be cool.”

She beamed at him, and something warm curled though him. The expression was the first he’d seen of hers that was truly happy, truly bright. Had he finally said the right things? When her expression settled again, she walked past him, clapping a hand on his shoulder as she went. The touch was so friendly and familiar that Silver felt somehow more at ease than nervous with the close contact. “Neat. I’m gonna grab my laptop and see if I can find anything for free. We can hang out here for a while, if you want! Is that alright, Adriana?”

“I’m just neck deep in this novel. Don’t worry about me,” Adrianna said.

As Lyra disappeared briefly upstairs, Silver settled back in his chair. These few hours with her affirmed his decision—it was worth it to try to be friends with her. _I missed her so much. Trying to deny myself this friendship was stupid,_ he thought to himself, listening to the creaks and groans of the ceiling above him as Lyra searched for her laptop.

It was reminiscent of being in Lyra's apartment again. A strange sentiment, something like a combination of nostalgia and loss, flooded through him, almost enough to make his head reel.

How strange it was, to be spending time like this with her again. 

* * *

**7 Years Ago**

“Was your dad ever married to your mom?”

Silver nearly dropped his controller at Lyra’s question. They had been playing Mario Kart on Lyra’s GameCube in her living room, one they’d snagged at the neighborhood yard sales just that morning, much to Lyra’s mother’s chagrin. A green shell appeared out of nowhere and blasted his cart off the track. “Goddammit,” he hissed.

Lyra peered at him. “Bad question?” she asked.

“Just weird,” he responded, recovering. He had gone from third to sixth in two short seconds. “Why’d you ask?”

She groaned as a blue shell slammed her—Lyra had been sitting comfortably in first since the start of the race. The lead was so far that it barely threw her off. “I dunno. My parents were together for a while. I just wondered if your mom was married to your dad when you were a baby. Before you could remember.”

“Well, if she was married to my dad, I’d wonder why,” he responded, his focus on the game slipping now. Was it some ploy by Lyra to make him lose?

She glanced over at him. “Why do you say that?”

“Dad’s a jerk,” he said simply. He was moving back through the ranks, up toward Lyra. He had a red shell with her name written on it.

She seemed to consider his words a bit. “Yeah. He is. But don’t you wish you had a mom?”

“Yeah, but it doesn’t mean Dad’s gonna talk about her any, whoever she is.” The final lap had started.

“I bet she’s where you got your hair and eyes from,” she remarked.

“No shit?” Silver said sarcastically. Lyra was still too far ahead to pummel with a red shell.

She scowled. “Maybe you’re adopted.”

“Lyra, cool it,” came her mother’s voice from the couch nearby. Silver glanced over his shoulder to see her paging through a magazine with huge, rectangular glasses perched on the tip of her nose. “And Silver, please don’t swear in my home.”

He sniffed, “Sorry.” Silver passed the second-place driver now, and he saw Lyra in the near distance. He readied himself to throw the red shell, to steal her win from her and—

Bright letters flashed across the screen. Silver had just crossed the finish line in second. “Oh sh—come on!” he corrected fast, feeling Norma’s burning gaze on him. “You just said that to distract me, didn’t you?” he demanded of her.

Lyra shook her head, her expression serious. “Nah. It just popped into my head.” She set down her controller and turned off the GameCube. “Let’s go the playground.”

Sitting on the swings they had sat on for years now, digging their toes in the woodchips, Silver and Lyra silently regarded the summer afternoon. It was cool and overcast, following a rainy morning. Lyra hadn’t said anything since they left the apartment; her expression seemed somber, her toes idly digging into the damp woodchips below her. Silver decided not to press her about whatever she was thinking. It would come out sooner rather than later.

Sure enough, after a moment, she twisted her swing around to look at him. “You don’t really even look like Giovanni, you know. Your nose and forehead look like his a little. But…sometimes I look at you, and I wonder what woman out there looks like you, and that’s what happened to me earlier.”

“Hopefully none,” he remarked, earning a baleful glance from her. “Why does it matter to you who my mother is?”

“I love my mom so much. I can’t imagine not knowing her. My dad sucks, but I know him, too,” Lyra added, letting herself fall into a jerking spin that made her voice jump around.

Silver regarded her statement. “Do you feel sad for me?”

“I guess I do,” she responded, the motion of the swing making it hard to take her response seriously.

He sighed. “Don’t. I don’t know her. Dad said she’ll never come around. No point in thinking too much about it.”

“Do you ever wonder why?” Lyra asked. She stomped her foot into the ground, cementing herself as he asked. “Like why she wouldn’t? You’re her son! You’re…you’re a real peach! Why would she not come looking for you?”

“She probably isn’t like your mom,” he responded, his tone bordering on terse.

Lyra fell silent. A trio of boys, no more than eight years old, launched themselves at the play equipment and screamed with joy. Silver felt like “a bummer” in comparison, to use one of Lyra’s words. “What would you say if you got to meet her?” Lyra asked.

He shrugged. “Probably just ask where she’s been, and if anything Dad says is true.”

“That’s kind of boring,” Lyra commented.

Silver kicked woodchips at her, staining her bare legs with flecks of mud—anything to get her off this topic. “You’re boring.”

Lyra gasped indignantly and kicked woodchips back at him. “You’re more boring!” she declared. Even with darker feelings permeating his mind, Silver laughed and doubled down on kicking woodchips, splattering himself with mud in the process.

Despite their giggling and shouting, Silver felt hollow. Lyra never pointed out the strange things about his life like that. She rarely made more than a passing comment. _Her mom is awesome. She probably sees how Giovanni is and feels bad for me,_ he thought as she tangled her legs in his, nearly pulling him from his swing. _But I don’t want to care about it._

Lyra didn’t seem to notice how troubled her concerns had made him, and he wanted it to stay that way. It pissed him off to know that she worried about him. _I’m fine. I’ve always been fine,_ he thought as she hopped off the swing to better kick more woodchips at him. He dodged her and ran to a nearby bush away from the woodchips, hoping to fling lingering water droplets at her. Damn her for worrying about him, anyway.

* * *

**Present Day**

Around mid-afternoon, after lots of chatting and noodling on instruments, Silver realized he was dozing off in Lyra’s chair. Conversation had slowed off as Lyra tested chords on a version of “Libertango” she had found online, and the quiet atmosphere of the shop, combined with the softness of the piano, had Silver just about nodding off.

“Silver? You should head home.” He opened his eyes to Lyra, gazing at him with some amusement. Her hair was a mess, pulled unceremoniously into a high ponytail that missed her fringe in the front. Her laptop sat precariously at the edge of her keyboard to display whatever websites she was looking at music on. “You were falling asleep.”

“Yeah, probably. I went into work at 11 last night and got off at 10 this morning,” he responded. He stretched, surprised at how comfy the antique chair had been if he could doze off that easily.

Lyra gasped. “Seriously? I didn’t know you were working that late! Let’s get you home!” She shut her laptop and set it on the bench as she stood. “I’ll walk you out.”

Silver walked passed Adrianna, who was now swiping around on a tablet. She said, “Feel free to stop by again, Silver.”

He gave her a nod as he followed Lyra out. Once they were outside the shop, Lyra marched off in one direction…and then paused. “Hey Silver, I have no idea where you live,” she said sheepishly, clasping her hands together.

Silver rubbed at his jaw. “You said _walk me out_ , not _walk me home._ ”

“I’m a proper gentleman, dammit,” Lyra responded. “Let me at least get you halfway there. You look dead on your feet.”

“I won’t say no to that.” He set off in the opposite direction Lyra had started moving in, and she followed him. The sun was now out and bright, hanging high above the buildings. His shadow was directly under his feet as he moved. Lyra’s messy ponytail bobbed along in a comical way; every step made more hair fall from it. In the daylight, her hair seemed far darker than he remembered it being when she was a kid. “Do you dye your hair?” he asked her.

She glanced at him, curious. “No. Not at all. Does it look that different from when we were kids?”

“It’s darker. It looked a little reddish when were kids sometimes,” he commented.

Lyra shrugged. “Not really. Your hair seems darker, too, by the way. It’s like…garnet red now. You were like fire engine red when we were kids. It’s pretty.” The words seemed to slip out of Lyra’s mouth before she could put a stop to it, and she coughed as if to cover up when she’d just said.

“Did you just call my hair pretty?” he jibed. “You really are a proper gentleman, complimenting a lovely young woman like so.”

“Fuck off,” she muttered, but she was chuckling. “It really is, though.”

He touched his hair curiously. She really thought it was pretty? No one had ever really commented on his hair before, beyond that it was “red” and “long,” or that “he desperately needed a haircut.” “Uh, thanks,” he said, awkward.

“Whatever happened to you growing up, you really do look good, you know? You really grew into yourself, I think,” she said. They approached a bridge, and as they crossed it, she pushed herself to the side and watched the water of the canal flow underneath.

Silver frowned. “Why…why are you saying this?” He was flattered, but he wasn’t sure where her train of thought was heading, nor was he sure that he wanted to reach the destination her train was heading for.

“I don’t know,” Lyra admitted. She dangled her arms over the railing and gazed down the canal. “I just have a few photos of us from when we were kids. I didn’t ever find you on social media. You looked at my Facebook a few times, so you probably had at least a vague idea of how I’d turned out.”

“Did you think I’d shave my head or something? Become the world’s palest skinhead?” Silver asked.

“God no. You used to look at me like I was plotting to chop all your hair off if I as much as used scissors near you,” she responded, chuckling. She peered up at him. “I’m sorry if I made it weird.”

Part of him desired to be snide, to say, “You always make it weird.” He knew that would probably make her feel hurt rather that amused. Instead, he just shrugged. A gull swooped over the canal to bully pigeons sitting on the railing. After a moment, he said to her, honestly, “It wasn’t weird.”

“If you say so.” Lyra launched back into chatting about something else entirely, but Silver was awash in the warmth of her compliment.

At an intersection about five minutes from the bridge, he stopped. “I’m going to go alone from here.”

“Can I come over sometime?” Lyra asked, stepping off to the side to allow an older woman with a walker to shamble past. The walkways were busier around here; the Grand Canal was just a few more streets over.

Silver didn’t have to think about it. “When I’m awake, yeah.”

Lyra huffed. “You didn’t have to spend so long with me when you’re so tired, you know.” She dug into her pocket with one hand and snagged his arm with the other. Before he could ask what she was doing, she pulled her hand free from her pocket with a pen and jotted something. “Feel free to call or text next time you wanna hang out, alright?” Lyra paused. “I mean…you do have a phone right?”

“What the hell do you think I am?” he dug into his pocket and flashed a cell phone at her. “Who doesn’t?”

Lyra rubbed at the back of her neck and chuckled. “I don’t know. Maybe you look like some kind of Luddite.” She turned away from him; Silver had a feeling she was trying to remember the way they came.

She began to walk away, but before she made it far, she stopped and turned back to Silver. “Hey,” she said. “It was really good to see you today. I’m glad you’re in my life.”

Silver’s stomach felt odd at her words. He lifted a hand to give her a casual wave. “I’ll text you,” he said. Lyra’s eyes crinkled as she smiled. Without another word, she trotted off, happiness permeating her entire being. Silver turned away as her figure disappeared around a corner.

As he walked home, Silver felt the warmth in him grow. He couldn’t remember someone ever complimenting him like that—without reservations, either. _I was so cruel to her the other night, and today she was so kind. Did I even deserve that?_ He wondered, shifting his violin case from one hand to the other. Even with his doubts, though, the warmth in him continued to grow and eclipse his doubts.

He knew one day he would have to disclose what happened to her. But for now, just being with her, cloistered away in the quiet shop, he would let dead things lie. There would be time for miserable conversations. For now, Silver unabashedly just wanted his renewed friendship with her.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the delay in updating, y'all! Life is pretty wild lately. 
> 
> So this was a 100% Silver chapter, including Silver flashbacks. I'm getting excited to get into meaty parts of his past and to dial up the heat on this slow burn lol. 
> 
> Anyway, I don't know when I'll update next. I do intend to see this fic through to the end, even if it takes considerable time.
> 
> Until next update, take care!
> 
> ~Mars
> 
> Silver's violin pieces:
> 
> Libertango, written by Astor Piazzolla: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Clnr7NFpq0E  
> Morrison's Jig is what I was thinking of for the Irish folk song. Think of it being unaccompanied, though: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=tl0e_9abIn8  
> Chaconne, written by Vitali: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=zXDQ-QliMJI
> 
> Lyra's piano pieces:
> 
> The waltz was based heavily off of a song of a composer I follow on Noteflight, or Waltz No. 1 in F# major. Press play to hear a midi!: https://www.noteflight.com/scores/view/21c0d51a05e156097e704c2c70ddf6c58cb7b61b  
> Chopin, Nocturne No. 2: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=9E6b3swbnWg  
> Debussy, Prelude on the Afternoon of a Faun: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=kbr7c2eRpUY  
> This transcription of Moon River: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=13_GMZkyYfQ  
> Mozart Piano Sonata No 16 C major: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=1vDxlnJVvW8


	6. Chapter 6

**Present Day**

Lyra stood in front of the sink, scrubbing dishes after dinner. Although she loathed the task, it didn’t cross her mind that she was standing there, using a bottlebrush to remove the coffee grounds from one of her uncle’s overly tall, narrow mugs. In fact, she found herself humming, the melody from her waltz. Her toe tapped in time; in her mind’s eye her fingers were flying over the keys with reckless energy.

The look in Silver’s eyes as she played was _so_ worth it. _From cool and collected to absolutely floored in two seconds flat,_ she thought to herself with a grin. As she rinsed the mug in her hands, her body felt buoyant, as though she was a ship on the jolliest of seas.

She had her friend back for real, didn’t she? Elated might have been a weak word for what she was feeling—it was as though she had been standing in frigid shade without knowing it, as though she had fallen asleep under a tree during a cool spring day, and today she had finally woken up and stepped into the sun. Her life felt warmer, having found what she had lost with Silver.

Her uncle walked through the kitchen and side-eyed her. “You’re in a good mood,” he said. Before she could respond, he set a dirty glass by the counter and walked out again.

On any other day, Lyra might have a snarky response for him, but she simply sighed to herself and set to washing it. She was nearly done; what was one more dish?

Minutes later, as she drained the sink, her phone buzzed from where she had left it on the kitchen table. She dried her hands off and snatched her phone. It appeared that an unknown number had texted her, encouraging Lyra to unlock it and read it:

_Save my number,_ it said.

Lyra’s eyebrow raised. _Silver?_ She texted back. She went to pour herself a glass of water, and when she returned, a new response sat waiting.

It read, _Yeah. I’m going to crash out, but I didn’t want to forget to do this._

Lyra grinned. Then, she remembered it had been close to three hours since he’d left. _What have you been doing? Go to bed already!_

_Don’t tell me how to live,_ he responded. Lyra scoffed, and another message joined it a few seconds later. _Goodnight._

She pocketed her phone again and found herself smiling. Lyra sat on the edge of the counter table and peered out the window, at the busy street below. The sun had set behind the buildings across the way and made the sky seem both pale and warm, like in a Dali painting. Part of her wondered what the sunset would be like back home that night. Would the tall buildings cast long, impenetrable shadows? Would the horizon fall red?

_Home._ It occurred to her she hadn’t told her mother about finding Silver. They’d barely texted or called since Lyra had arrived, considering how preoccupied Lyra had been with having an entire city to explore.

She trotted to her room and dialed her mother’s number. It was around lunchtime back home, meaning it was far more likely she’d pick up her phone. After a few dial tones, her mother’s voice answered, “Lyra? Did you remember I exist?

“I’m sorry for not calling much,” she responded, flopping onto her bed. She was speaking in English, tired of jabbering away in Italian. “I have so much to tell you. Something _incredible_ happened!”

“If that incredible thing is a man, remember you’re only there for a few months and you have college. Now isn’t the time to be boy crazy.” Mom warned.

Lyra almost choked. When had she ever been _boy_ crazy? She’d been on dates here and there and had a brief attempt at a relationship in her sophomore year of high school. “Uh, well, kind of, but it’s not like that—”

“Flings are a bad idea. You can get pregnant, you know. You and your aunt will be caring for babies at the same time, and that is something I don’t want to wrap my head around.”

Lyra’s jaw dropped at her mother’s audacity, as well as the bluntness of her tone. “Uh, Mom? Ew. This isn’t about a romance, anyway. You’ll never guess who I found here.”

“Hmm.” Her mother was silent for a moment. “No idea. Did you run into a friend from school? It’s a popular tourist destination.”

Lyra couldn’t hold it in anymore. She bounced her bare heels against the mattress before saying, “Of all people, in all places in the world, I found Silver.”

Lyra heard something crash on the other end of the phone. “Fuck,” her mother hissed. A few seconds later, she clarified, “You’re not kidding? As in Gianni Briccone? Giovanni’s kid? I didn’t just knock over sixteen ounces of coffee for nothing, right?”

“I wouldn’t joke about that,” Lyra said. Her face was aching from the smile that she couldn’t seem to wipe from her face.

“I suppose you wouldn’t. You were inconsolable for weeks.” Lyra heard her mother rummaging her desk for carpet cleaning spray. Her klutziness had certainly been inherited, and Norma was prepared for the variety of messes this quality was bound to create. Lyra could picture her office in the art museum, otherwise white and tidy, with a shattered mug and the darkest, headiest coffee staining the industrial carpet.

Lyra gazed at the ceiling above her head, scalloped and peeling. “He’s had a rough go of things, from what I can tell. He won’t talk about it, and I’m not going to push it. We spent the afternoon together today. He still plays violin. He’s supporting himself here.”

“Isn’t he your age? Why is he living on his own?” her mother pressed.

Lyra shrugged. “I don’t have much information. He…” she trailed off, sadness tightening her chest as she thought about. “He was homeless for a while.”

“Oh my God,” her mother responded, her voice colored with horror. “When? With his father?”

“I don’t know. He won’t...he won’t talk about Giovanni. He gets kind of ticked off if I as much as mention him,” Lyra said. “But he’s living here, and he has a home. Works overnights in a cafe, does odd jobs to make ends meet.”

Norma was silent for a moment, but Lyra could hear her scrubbing. “He should be in a conservatory or a university, what with that violin of his. Is he good?”

“Oh yeah. He’s awesome.” Lyra filled her mother in on the rest of what she knew. Norma seemed relieved to learn that he was okay; he had spent so much time at their apartment when they were younger. Lyra remembered, not long after Silver disappeared, that she had caught her mother crying more than once. It was then that she remembered something her mother said that made her heart feel as though it was breaking again. She had sat beside her mother on her bed one night, close to midnight. Unprompted, out of the blue, she said something that had suckerpunched Lyra right in her soul:

“Who’s going to love him now that he’s not with us? Who’s going to care?”

“Lyra?” her mother probed. Lyra tried to shake herself of the cold, sick feeling that was rolling through her gut. “Lyra? Did the call break up?”

“No. I just...sorry, I got distracted,” Lyra responded, laughing half-heartedly. “What’s work been like?”

About ten minutes later, Lyra said goodbye to her mother. She didn’t remember anything her mother said, other than that she had been arguing with restorers for two hours that morning about an unexpected price hike. _Who’s going to care?_ The question echoed in her mind.

Had anyone at all cared about him since he left America? Had he met friends? A girlfriend? A mentor? Anyone at all outside of coworkers and bosses? _Has he been alone this whole time?_ She thought, her eyes huge. It hadn’t occurred to her that he wouldn’t have made more friends. He hadn’t really mentioned any close friends in their conversations yesterday, nor had Silver mentioned anything about any romantic interests. Most of his personal stories had revolved around coworkers and drama while performing. On top of that, he had alluded to never being as comfortable with anyone as he had been with her when he’d apologized.

_I think he’s been totally alone,_ she thought. The next time she saw him, she had to ask him. Lyra needed to know. Now that they had found each other again, she could continue giving him the support she once had. If anything, she could make up for lost time and lost meaning in Silver’s life.

* * *

**Present Day**

It was half-past three in the morning, and the café was mostly abandoned due to the early hour and the return of the rain. Silver yawned, leaning over the counter. He had only slept for four hours before having to go back into work. After tonight, he was off for three days. _First thing I’m going to do is go to turn off my phone and sleep as late as my body allows,_ he decided. At least he was able to leave at five; he had to stay and cover a shift for a server who’d been knocked off of his moped by a mugger.

His eyes flicked across the café. There was a young couple, a massive, bespectacled man and a willowy girl with braids, talking in terse, hushed tones, at one table. They leaned in toward one another. Silver saw the man’s eyes, intense behind oval-lensed glasses. His pale, meaty hands had engulfed her slender, dark ones. The muted energy in the exchange seemed like it was meant for a more private place; Silver turned his face away.

What a night it was. His mood felt higher than usual—Lyra really had an effect on him, didn’t she?  He came home and found himself motivated to _do_ things. Silver had cooked a decent dinner and had taken a shower of reasonable length before sleeping for a few hours before his shift. He had even dropped off rent to his landlady at a reasonable hour.

Except now, he was physically running on empty. His hair wasn’t quite staying pulled back anymore, nor was his shirt perfectly tucked in. His sleeves were rolled over his elbows, his tie loosened. It was too late for anyone to care, and if his boss saw—

“That time of night, huh?” A hand clapped hard on his shoulder. Speak of the devil, his boss slid beside him. Proton had a habit of appearing from nowhere and startling anyone who seemed remotely deep in thought. “Did you listen to my advice yesterday?”

“What advice?” Silver said. He busied himself with straightening the napkin holders on the counter. He had known Proton for years now. He was a reckless man, teal-haired with a smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes. “Shouldn’t you have gone ages ago? I didn’t think you were still here.”

Proton scoffed. “Don’t ever think I’m gone, and especially don’t change the subject on me. You know what advice I mean. Did you go meet that girl?”

Silver rubbed at his brow. Damn, he was tired. “Yeah, I did.”

“Good. Sick of you moping around and not hanging out with anyone outside of work,” Proton said, wiping his nose with the back of his hand. He realized his actions, cursed, and went to wash his hands at the sink.

Silver watched him. “You literally pursue any woman to spite me if I don’t talk to them.”

“Consider it motivation to not abandon a childhood friend and keeping a girl from falling under my spell,” Proton responded.

“She’s seventeen, dude.”

“Not that far from eighteen,” Proton responded, waggling his eyebrows.

Silver wasn’t certain that Proton was joking. He was in his late twenties, but he seemed to have few qualms about running around with much younger—or older—women. As long as she was beautiful and had a kind face, Proton seemed to be willing to give any woman a shot. Silver couldn’t even begin to count the number of disgruntled women that seemed to go in and out the revolving door of Proton’s love life. “She’s my friend. You’re being gross. Keep your nose out of it.”

“For now, I will,” Proton responded, a sick little smile passing over his lips. He clapped Silver on the shoulder again. “I’m heading out. Don’t forget we’re going bar hopping tomorrow. Come along or I’ll hide thumb tacks where you like to stand around.”

Silver sighed. “I haven’t forgotten.” Proton disappeared out the back of the café; he heard the door clatter shut. Now, aside from himself and the young couple, there were two cooks and one other waiter in the restaurant.

There wasn’t any cleaning to do. No guests to serve—one of his coworkers had refilled the coffee cups of already. Silver leaned over the counter and sighed. _If I didn’t owe so much to Proton, I’d probably have punched him in the mouth a long time ago,_ he thought. The man had given him a job when he had no other options. He’d helped Silver find housing, helped him find—

Silver shook his head. No matter what Proton had helped with, he was still allowed to be frustrated with him. It had been eerie, how quickly Proton had homed in on Silver’s indecision just the night before, and poked at it until he felt motivated to act.

“I want to fix this. Buzz off,” Silver had grumbled toward the end of his shift as he rolled silverware.

“Then go fix it. Don’t sabotage this, dumbass,” Proton retorted, whacking him upside the head as though he was an unruly ten-year-old boy.

Silver smiled a little, in spite of himself. He remembered Lyra saying, “I guess I’ll have to thank him if I ever meet him.” Maybe Silver owed Proton some gratitude, too—once he understood that Silver didn’t appreciate weird comments about Lyra and received the punch in the mouth he so deserved.

_I don’t want him meeting her. He’ll be all over her because she’s pretty,_ he thought. His eyes widened when he realized what he just thought, and he rubbed at the bridge of his nose. He really _was_ overtired. The last thing he needed to do was think about Lyra that way, after they had just reconnected.

He didn’t want to think that way, but at the same time, Silver knew that the thought was going to harass him for days to come.

-

**Present Day**

A day passed without much contact from Silver—a handful of texts, spanning over the space of twenty-four hours, was about all Lyra heard from him. Though she understood he was an adult and had to deal with all of the trappings of adulthood, she hated how quiet it was without him. During that day, she ran a few errands for Adrianna, whose back and feet were too sore to do much more than sit at the counter. Lyra helped with a few customers in the morning before being sent to the grocery store to grab milk and a few other necessities.

At the store, the same, bored boy she had seen before, with his phone plugged into the outlet, was paging through a magazine at the counter. Lyra grabbed what she needed and stopped to pet the fat orange cat that sometimes slept in the dry goods aisle. When she brought the goods to the front, the boy looked up. “Oh, you,” he said. His tone revealed nothing, which aroused Lyra’s suspicions.

“Yes, me?” Lyra responded, confused.

“Yeah, you. The one who gave Andrea trouble. Did you find that redhead?” he asked, scanning her items.

Lyra was surprised he remembered. “I did,” she responded. She handed him a few euros. “It’s weird. I knew that guy when we were kids. We were good friends. I found him in this city, of all places.”

“This is truly a city of coincidences,” he said dryly. “I grew up in the smallest town in Romania. I lived there until I was eight, but I still see more people from that town here than I do when I go visit my relatives.”

“I wonder why that is,” Lyra said.

He handed her change back. “I don’t know. This city is like a magnet. Everyone and everything is drawn here at some point. Because of that, you’ll never know what happens here.”

Lyra thought about that exchange, later that day as she swept the walkway outside of the shop. It seemed to have rained overnight again; her work from the day prior was useless. _You’ll never know what happens here._ It was true. She couldn’t have predicted running into Silver again. Lyra had about given up on that hope after years of fruitless social media searches, but he had appeared once again.

“ _Ciao,_ ” she said to everyone who passed by. The shop was busier today; part of her hoped Silver would drop by unannounced. Part of her told her he wouldn’t do that.

“ _Ciao,_ kiddo,” said an older American man who swaggered into the shop. Lyra smiled at his poor pronunciation.

When she returned inside later, her aunt was finishing up with a customer, a Chinese woman who came up to Lyra’s shoulder. The woman walked out, and Adrianna settled back in her chair, folding her hands over her stomach. “My employees are supposed to come in soon. Covering for two hours after opening is getting to be too much.” She sighed. “I’m so pregnant. These babies need to come out soon.”

“I wouldn’t wanna be carrying them anymore.” She set the broom in the alcove behind the counter. “Anything else you need me to do?”

“Not today. Thank you, Lyra,” Adrianna said, smiling.

Lyra gestured. “Do you…want me to cover the counter ‘til your workers come?”

“Not today. Tomorrow, though, you’re covering before lunch,” Adrianna reminded her. She glanced out the shop windows and smiled, the expression coy. “I don’t suppose you’re going to go find Silver?”

Lyra shook her head. “Not today. I think he had to work late. He isn’t texting much.” As if on a cue, her phone buzzed. She pulled it from her pocket to read a text:

_I’m off for the next three days after today. Can we do something tomorrow?_

Adrianna chuckled. Lyra looked up from her phone to see her aunt smiling, a Cheshire cat grin that was all too calculating. “Silver, I presume?” she said.

“What makes you say that?” Lyra said, quickly tapping back a _Yes please!_ to Silver.

“You’re quite smiley,” Adrianna retorted.

Lyra poked at her cheek; sure enough, her cheekbones were lifted, and her dimples were showing. “Huh. I guess I am,” she said. “I’m just happy to have found him and have some kind of a friendship with him again.”

“Ah, I see. ‘Friendship,’” she said, placing air quote around the word. Lyra held back a scowl at her aunt’s insinuation.

Her phone buzzed again, and she unlocked it to read, _Print the Libertango arrangement. I want to try it._

The following day, Lyra sat at the counter in the shop, paging through the printed arrangement of “Libertango” and circling various lines in her piano part. Her shift was over in about ten minutes; Silver was supposed to come then so they could work on music together. The shop was busy, but people were perusing and few purchases were being made. She overhead a conversation in English between two American girls, discussing whether the price of a tiny, gold-plated jewelry box was fair. Was 50 euros fair? Lyra rolled her eyes and marked a repeat in her music. “It’s real gold, y’know,” she muttered under her breath.

“That’s a weird way to say hi.” Lyra looked up to find Silver standing in front of the counter. Today, he was wearing casual clothes. As casual as he went, anyway—his dark clothes seemed like they were old-fashioned or costume-like, as though purchased from specialty and secondhand shops. The dark shadows under his eyes weren’t as deep today. “I’m early, aren’t I?”

“Hi, Silver,” she said, giving him a jaunty little wave. “You’re a bit early, but you can just hang out for a while,” she said. A woman approached the counter, carrying a china figurine of a cat.

Lyra took care of the transaction. The woman didn’t speak Italian, but she did speak hesitant, halting English. Her best guess said that the woman, tiny and middle-aged, was likely German or Austrian, judging by her accent and her prim dress.

As she left, Silver coughed slightly. “I know German, you know. I could’ve helped there.”

“So she _was_ German, then?” Lyra remarked, gathering her music. “I was wondering based off that accent.”

Lyra’s uncle came down to relieve her and shooed her and Silver off. Adrianna was spending her day in appointments across the city, leaving Lyra, her uncle, and one college-aged employee, set to come in later in the afternoon, in charge of the shop. She led Silver upstairs, to the apartment. The living room was set up for practicing; the worn, yellow couch was pushed to the wall to make room for her keyboard, and the windows were open to keep it cool. “Make yourself comfortable. Sorry if you get too warm. The air conditioning in the living room isn’t great,” she said, plopping onto her stool behind the keyboard.

“I don’t get hot,” Silver responded. He stood beside Lyra’s keyboard and propped open his violin case. He pulled out his violin and bow and asked, “Give me an A.”

Lyra powered up her keyboard and pressed the lowest A on the keyboard. He gave her a pointed look. She smiled at him and moved her hands further up the keys, tapping a higher A slowly as he tuned. His tone was so warm and crisp. Lyra felt a bubble of happiness rise up in her as she watched him tune; the way his expression seemed so focused, even with his hair falling in his face and over his shoulders, was so nostalgic—maybe many things had changed, but not necessarily _that._ “Did you survive your late nights?” she asked.

“Yup. Slept pretty much all day after I got off yesterday. I actually feel like a person today,” he said, turning a tuning peg a touch further.

She tapped the A again as he took back to tuning. “That’s good. You look less tired, anyway.”

“Is it because I combed my hair?” he asked. He took a moment to shove it out of his face.

Lyra remembered what she said about his hair the last time they met and she sighed. “Yeah, sure, that,” she responded.

She passed him his music from her stack and pointed out the stand in the corner, near the entrance to the kitchen. “Take a look at this. I don’t know how well you sight read, but I figure you know the melodic line well enough it won’t be a big problem.”

His brow rumpled as he looked at the music. “I haven’t actually read music in a while,” he admitted. “Like…a year or two, I think.”

Lyra raised her eyebrows. “Do you learn things by ear?”

“I was never a good reader. Don’t worry though,” he added, noticing her incredulous expression, “I’m not an illiterate fuck.”

Lyra snorted. “That’s one way to put it.”

She tossed him a pencil. He went through the music and marked. They chatted idly as he marked various repeats and other changes in the music. The café had been slow for days overnight because of rain. The shop had been busy in the mornings lately, but afternoons had become sludgy and boring with few customers. Lyra lamented her lack of knowledge of German.

“German’s not that hard. Russian is way harder,” Silver remarked. “I probably lost all fluency when we left Krasnoyarsk.”

The room fell silent. Lyra noticed red creeping up over his neck and face—Russia wasn’t something he’d intended to reveal. “Krasnoyarsk,” she repeated, softer.

He glanced at her. His face seemed drawn once again. “Uh…yeah. I lived there for a year and a half, with Giovanni,” he said, his tone flat.

Lyra felt a mild panic settle in; she didn’t want him to feel sad! _It’s his own fault for mentioning it, but I should probably fix this,_ she thought. “Is that anywhere near Tunguska? The place where the UFO or whatever crashed?”

The drawn look disappeared, replaced with indignation. “So you hear Russia and that’s the first thing you ask?”

“Answer my question!” she responded. She leaned over the keyboard and jammed her elbows against the keys, making a jumbled chord sound through the apartment.

He sighed. “Uh…I think they were in the same _krai,_ yeah. Krasnoyarsk is in Siberia.”

“I’ll bet you didn’t even go investigate the site.”

“It happened in 1908!” He responded indignantly. Silver noticed Lyra laughing at him and squinted at her, through strands of his hair. “What are you laughing at?”

She shrugged. “I don’t know. You’re a funny guy, Silver.” She flipped open her sheet music and smoothed it out. “Alright. Wanna take a crack at this?”

They didn’t chat much more after that—instead, music bubbled forth. Lyra’s part was largely bassline and accompaniment, with Silver’s part as an arching melody. At first, they didn’t make it more than a few measures without crashing, which was something that Lyra laughed about and Silver groaned over. Soon, it flowed. Silver’s bow strokes and Lyra’s keystrokes began to match up. Lyra looked up at him, watching his bow move and his body sway, and she couldn’t help but smile. They reached a repeat, and they turned around smoothly to the beginning of the section.

Lyra loved the feeling of playing with him. As kids, they had often noodled around together and tried simple duets, but it often failed. “Stop sucking!” They would yell at one another when their attempts inevitably went south. Today, the music _flowed_ in a way it never had. Tricky parts were made easier with communication, a flick of the eyes here or a nod there that said everything. His eyes, so soft a gray, met hers more often than she realized as they played.

Lyra realized they had come to the end of the song, with some stumbling and added measures for missed entrances, but it had _worked._ She felt her face split into a grin. “Holy shit, did you hear that, Silver? We did it!”

He smiled, too. The expression startled Lyra; it was so soft, so…unbridled. For a moment, it was as though there wasn’t a foreboding, unknown past behind his eyes. _That suits him,_ she thought, rubbing at her neck.

Silver sighed. “We did, but we messed up some of it.”

“Yeah, but we made it through. And it didn’t sound _that_ bad. We couldn’t even keep together for more than sixteen measures when we were kids,” she said. She flipped back through her music. “Although, we really have to work on that bit around measure 20. You came in like an eight note too soon, or maybe I was holding a note too long…”

They compared notes. Silver wedged himself beside her on her bench, their thighs touching. He pointed out a place in the music on her score, tapping it with the eraser end of his pencil. He brushed his hair out of his face with another hand as he scored her part. “I have no clue what you’re up to at this spot, but I was so confused here. I feel like it doesn’t really work with what I’m playing.”

She frowned. “Really? We were actually pretty on point there, I felt like. There wasn’t anything weird.”

Silver scoffed. “Something wasn’t right, I swear. I’m not crazy.”

“I’m not saying you’re crazy.” Lyra glanced over at Silver to see him pushing hair out of his face again. Why didn’t he tie his hair back? It was longer than hers, cascading past his shoulders in messy, barely-combed waves. The ends threatened to spike out. She nudged him with her shoulder. “Your hair’s all in your face. How do you work like that?”

“I’m fine,” he insisted. Lyra scoffed and slid off the bench. She tugged a spare elastic off her wrist. Her actions inspired a quizzical look from him and a question: “What are you doing?”

Lyra spun the elastic on her finger. “I’m getting your hair out of your face.”

“I can do that myself,” he insisted, but she moved behind him where he sat and flipped his hair back so that it dripped down his back.

Lyra quickly gathered it and secured it with the hair tie. The top layer of his hair seemed so coarse, but underneath it felt soft and almost a little curly, not unlike hers. She smiled a little. “Is that okay?” she asked. “Not too tight?”

Silver hesitated. “No. Not…not at all,” he responded, his tone faltering.

Lyra returned to the bench, her thigh pressing back to his. “So, you’re certain the spot was right here?” she asked, pointing to the measure he had commented on earlier.

He was silent a moment. Lyra noticed movement out of the corner of her eye before she felt her hair fall lose from the ponytail she’d piled it into, forcing it to topple into her face. “Silver!” she complained. She brushed her hair out of her face in time to watch him toss the hair tie onto the keyboard.

He chuckled, the sound a little dark. “We’re even now.”

“This isn’t remotely even!” She gathered her hair into a messy side ponytail and scowled at him. “I value being able to see, thanks! I’m a person, not a wild horse!”

Silver shook his head, but his smirk was just a little too obvious for Lyra. She noticed, with a tiny curl of pride that touched her heart, that he hadn’t taken out the ponytail she’d just put in. He stood and snatched up his violin. “So, tell me the measure number. Let me play for you what I’m reading.”

They passed close to an hour working on the song together, pausing to write notes in their parts and noodle around. “I hope we’re not driving my uncle nuts,” she commented with a nervous laugh. “We’ve been working on just one song for a while.”

“Might be time for a break,” Silver admitted. He set his violin in his case.

Lyra stood from the bench and stretched. She was dressed in her version of casual, which contrasted heavily with Silver’s. She had on her favorite red t-shirt and overall shorts, where one strap refused to stay up—nor did Lyra argue with it. “You hungry? Thirsty?” she asked him.

He shrugged. Lyra scowled. “That’s not an answer. If you need something, I will get it for you.”

He sighed. “You worry too damned much.” He then added, “I’m kind of hungry, actually. I guess. If you really want to know.”

“No problem. We have some leftover _piccata_ from last night and some bread, if that’s okay?” she said, leading him into the kitchen. “If not, we can go somewhere for food.”

“ _Piccata_ sounds good,” he said.

She put the _piccata,_ the chicken dish, in the microwave and heated it up for him. “Not exactly fancy, so I’m sorry about that,” she said to him, leaning against the counter as she waited for the food to heat up.

Silver shrugged. “Beggars can’t be choosers. It isn’t every day someone offers me food, anyway, so I’m not going to give that hard of a no when someone asks.”

Lyra shoved her hands in her pockets. “You know, if you need something from me, you can ask. If I can’t give it to you, I’ll just say so. Don’t feel bad, asking for something. Like...food isn’t a big deal. I’m the only one who regularly eats leftovers around here, anyway.”

Silver’s face flashed with an emotion she couldn’t quite describe before he simply said, “If you say so.”

The microwave dinged, and Lyra opened it to poke at the chicken. “Hmm. Let me know if it’s too cold, but the outside is pretty hot.” She slid it across the table to him before fetching two glasses of water. Lyra also cut two slices of bread, slathered hers in butter, and set the other beside the plate she had set in front of him. She sat across from him as he cut into the chicken. “Any good?” she asked.

He popped a bite in his mouth and nodded. “Seems fine,” he said.

Lyra watched in amazement as he wolfed it down, as though he hadn’t eaten in a while. He always did that as a child, too—whatever he ate, he ate so quickly and diligently that there wasn’t even evidence that the food had been on a plate afterward. “Wow,” she remarked.

He glanced up. “What?”

“Are you sure you’re not starving? You still eat really fast,” she commented.

“I won’t lie. I could stand to eat more,” he responded, tearing a piece off a piece of the bread slice. He regarded it, his eyes unreadable. “Money gets tight, and then I usually buy less food instead of cutting other costs. I can do for a week or two on small meals.”

Lyra forced herself to not frown. She didn’t want him to become overwhelmed with her concern. “You’re a tall guy, though. I can’t imagine that’s good for you.”

“I mean, I do a lot that’s not necessarily good for me. You probably have some shitty habits, too,” he replied.

Lyra sipped at her water, watching him. With the lull in conversation, he downed the bread even faster than he’d eaten the chicken. “Do you need another slice? I don’t have any more _piccata_ to offer right now.”

He shook his head. “No.” He quickly added, “Uh, thanks, though.”

She flipped a peace sign at him. “Yeah, no problem. Gotta take care of my duet partner, you know?”

Silver rolled his eyes at her, but Lyra saw his mouth quirk with a smile. She twisted a strand of her ponytail around her finger and gazed out the window. It had started raining again, the sky dark with stormy clouds. “I didn’t know it was supposed to rain again,” she muttered, almost to herself. “It didn’t even cool off any.”

“No. It’ll probably storm and then stop,” Silver remarked. “Hopefully none of the _sestieri_ flood. High tide is enough to wash the foundations in some parts of this city.”

Lyra gestured to his water glass, now mostly empty. “Need a refill?”

He gave her a nod. As she filled the glass at the tap, she heard Silver shuffle. She glanced to find him looking uncomfortable. She set it before him and sat back down. “What’s going on?” she asked him.

He sighed. “I don’t know. It’s weird having someone care, I guess. You’re so kind to me, and I don’t see anything in your face that says you expect anything back.”

“I don’t know. You being here and talking to me is enough,” she said. She folded her arms behind her head and gazed out the window again. He was _opening up_ to her; to show too much intent interest on him at this point would likely make him clam up again. “What more would I want?”

“A lot of people do nice things with the hope the other person is in debt to them,” he responded.

Lyra watched him. He was fiddling with the water glass, watching condensation drip down its sides with a bleak expression. “I haven’t really met a lot of people that make me think I mean anything to them.”

Lyra’s heart clenched. She settled her hands back in front of her, unable to keep up the casual façade. Silver noticed her expression and looked as though he was ready to say something, but Lyra asked her question first. “Do you have many people that care about you, Silver?” she asked.

He sighed. “Not really. The ones who do tend to have some investment in my wellbeing. My boss, for example. He relies on me for a lot. We’re probably on better terms than most bosses and employees, but I run the café for him when he’s not there. My landlady and her son talk to me quite a bit, but I’m the one they call when odd repairs need to be made. Any other connections I have are all really shallow.” Silver’s thumb wiped at a drop that threatened to roll to the table. “I think a lot of that is by my own choosing.”

_So he has been alone,_ she realized, her gut fears confirmed. She tried to keep her expression neutral as he asked her, “Isn’t that pretty fucked up of me?”

Lyra swallowed. “Um…I don’t know. It sounds like you’ve been through some pretty terrible stuff.”

He regarded her. “You look upset.”

“I just…oh shit. Fine.” She explained her earlier fears to him and her conversation with her mom. She rubbed at her forehead and sighed. “I’m sorry. I don’t think you like that people worry about you, but honestly, I can’t help it. I care and it makes me sad to think you don’t have people who care about you. You’re worth people’s concern and stuff.”

She looked up to find Silver looking at her, his face red and his eyes wide. Lyra glanced away, her own face growing hot. “What?” she muttered.

“Am I really worth that kind of worry?” he asked her, his tone curious.

She nodded. “Yeah, absolutely.” Her voice was filled with conviction.

His expression softened considerably. She noticed his mouth twitch, as though he was fighting off a smile. “You’re a weird fucking person,” he said, but his tone was affectionate.

Lyra pointed at herself. “Weirdest person around, that’s me.”

Silver looked like he was about to say something, but Lyra’s uncle calling her name from the shop silenced him. Lyra sighed and stood. “I’ll bet you he needs me to translate. His English is terrible,” she remarked. As she stood to walk by him, she couldn’t help but just rest a hand on his arm, where it was sitting on the table. “Be back in a few. Help yourself to water or bread if you need it,” she said to him.

As she trotted down the stairs into the shop, she felt herself smile. _Maybe I’m making progress with him?_ She thought. _This could be really good for us._

* * *

**Present Day**

It was later in the afternoon, after their break for food and Lyra’s translation services. Lyra was numbering measures in her part of “Libertango.” Silver was absentmindedly plucking chromatic pizzicatos, thinking. He glanced over at Lyra, who was deep in concentration. Her hair was falling free of her ponytail, her dark brows furrowed as she continued to mark the music up. She had brought out a speaker, connected to her phone. She was playing some older American folk music from it; he didn’t recognize the artist drifting over the speaker.

It had shaken him to know how much she worried about him. What did it matter if he’d been alone? That was at least partly by his own choosing, yet there she was, fretting about him. She had welcomed him back into her life with open arms.

Thinking back to how he’d tried to push her away made him feel nauseated to think about; being back here with her again had brought him happiness he didn’t even know he could have anymore. From where he lay on floor, he watched her work. He’d thought it with some trepidation at work, but he openly admitted it to himself now—she was so pretty. As a kid he had never seen her that way. She was his weird, pigtail-wearing friend that had seemingly harassed him into friendship.

Lyra caught him looking at her. She raised her eyebrows. “You good? I feel like you’ve just been plucking chromatics for a good ten minutes now.”

He nodded. “Yeah, I’m alright.”

“You’re free to sit on the couch, you know. That’s what it’s there for. Sitting,” she said, her tone playful.

He scoffed. “That’s bourgeois as hell and you know it.”

“My back and tailbone thank me when I sit there instead of on the floor,” she responded.

“I’m not _sitting._ I’m _laying_ here,” he responded indignantly. “Practice your Italian or something once in a while, maybe.”

She set her pencil down and glared at him. “We are speaking in Italian right now, and you know full well you were just sitting there earlier like a goober.”

He set his violin aside and crossed his arms. “Well, I’m laying right now.”

Lyra groaned. She set her pencil down and rubbed at her neck and back. “You know, that’s not a half-bad idea. I’m getting so cramped up from hunching at the piano.”

Before Silver could either object or accept her joining him, she joined him on the floor, sprawling beside him. She had her legs drawn up to her chest for a moment. “Oh yup. There we go,” she said with a relieved sigh. Silver heard audible cracking, which was enough to make him feel mildly intimidated. She relaxed her legs, folded her hands over her stomach, and turned her head to look at him. “Good idea, Silver. Couches are for bougie losers who like bad backs.”

“So’s the piano,” he pointed out. Lyra whacked his arm. “Gotta get my shots in.”

She groaned. “Of course you do.”

They chatted back and forth for a while, poking fun at each other. She was so close, but he felt at ease beside her, just laying on the floor and joking around with his childhood friend. What was it about her that put him so at ease, anyway? Very few people could get away with half of what she said and did around him, yet he didn’t once feel the need to distance himself from her once he’d accepted her into his life again.

After a few minutes, she reached her arms out in front of her and stretched them. “Did we even do any meaningful practice today?” she asked him.

He shrugged. “I think so.”

“You don’t mind that we goofed off so much?” she asked him, dropping her arms back to their place over her stomach. “I know we both take music pretty seriously, so I don’t want to make you feel like I’m babying you or something if I do something silly.”

Silver shook his head. “No. I…” he trailed off. _I really just like spending time with you_ was what he was about to say. Was that safe to say at this point. Maybe it was the warmth, the comfort, of the moment, but Silver continued. “I like spending time with you,” he said.

Lyra’s eyes widened. Her mouth quirked. “You do?”

“Yeah. I…I really do,” he said.

Lyra smiled at him. “I like spending time with you, too. But I think I’ve probably made that pretty clear by now,” she said, her tone diffident.

They regarded each other for a moment, silent. He searched her face, wondering exactly what was going on in her head. It was clear she cared for him—but in what way? He knew that he thought she was pretty, but what more was there on his behalf? What made him talk that way with her? Lyra looked away, her dark lashes shading her eyes. “I hope you don’t mind my saying that. I don’t want to make it too weird.”

“What the fuck? I said it first,” he reminded her.

She shrugged. “I don’t know. I have you here, and sometimes I’m worried things I do will make you not come back here,” she admitted.

He frowned. “Do I seem that flighty?”

“Sometimes, yeah. I honestly wonder if this is a dream sometimes. I used to dream about finding you again sometimes and wake up just devastated,” Lyra said. She wasn’t looking at him. She gazed at the ceiling, her face stony. “I’m so happy you’re here, and I just…don’t want to do anything that’ll change that.”

Silver rolled onto his side and sighed. He smacked her arm. “Don’t worry so much. It’s stupid. I want to be here, so I’m here. If I didn’t want to be here, I would’ve never come back and apologized for being a jackass.”

Lyra gazed up at him. He sighed. “I’m being serious you know.”

She rolled over onto her side and propped her head up with her elbow. “O-okay,” she responded, meeting his intense gaze. Her eyes seemed startled. Was he imagining things, or did she seem pink in the face? She reached out and rested her hand on his arm, like she had earlier. “Let’s just…stay here a while,” she said, her voice quiet.

The hush between them was magnetic. Silver nodded slowly. Her hand remained there, on his arm. Her hand was so warm and soft. She closed her eyes and relaxed, slowly. _I make her worry too much,_ he thought to himself. Her ponytail was in her face, cascading over her mouth. Without really thinking about it, he reached out and pushed it over her shoulder.

She opened one eye and watched as he retracted his hand. “You were eating your own hair,” he told her.

“Sounds healthy,” she muttered. Her hand dropped off his arm. “And tasty.”

He regarded her. “Are you falling asleep?”

“No. I’m just really comfortable,” she responded. Her tone seemed clear enough now that he didn’t question her response.

He wondered what these minutes between them were. She eased closer to him, close enough that their knees about touched. There wasn’t much conversation. Just an errant question here and there, casual and soft. He had an absurd desire to reach out and let her hair loose from its ponytail again, just to see how it fell around her face. She almost always wore it in braids, a bun, or some other means of holding it away from her eyes.

He inched closer when he heard the door open. Lyra’s eyes opened and she hopped up, immediately returned to her spot in the piano bench. “Lyra!” called Adrianna’s voice. “Mind helping me with a few bags? I did some shopping while I was out today.”

“Sure!” she called. Silver was sitting up now, watching as Lyra hopped to her feet to go help her aunt. “How were your appointments?”

Silver listened to them chat. The moment was broken, but the feeling remained. In that moment, he’d felt so bizarrely close to her—it was intimate, whatever it was. Lyra had seemed as comfortable and accepting of the interaction as he was. It made him wonder: what were they going to become? Did she also have a mixture of feelings for him?

Lyra’s conversation with Lyra became background noise as Silver began to consider what his time with her in the next few months would be like. He had said things wouldn’t be like they were before, right? _What if that means…something beyond friendship?_ He thought. He watched as she walked past the doorway into the living room, laughing at some joke Adrianna had made. _What are we going to be?_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Howdy! I'm on spring break, so I'm trying to get an update or two in before I'm back to my Wild University Life.
> 
> A little bit of everything in this chapter, but also a slow dialing up of the heat in this slow burn if you catch my drift.
> 
> Proton and Silver have an extremely complicated relationship that I'll be getting into at some point. Silver loves Proton...but Silver hates Proton....
> 
> Until next update, take care!
> 
> Songs mentioned in this update:
> 
> Libertango, for piano and violin: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=1zfOh6gESNg
> 
> Some folksy songs I bet Lyra would be playing off her phone:
> 
> Old Man by Neil Young (who is Canadian but would Silver know the difference? Nah) https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=An2a1_Do_fc
> 
> Scarborough Fair as done by Simon and Garfunkel: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=-BakWVXHSug
> 
> Sim Sala Bim by Fleet Foxes: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=A4tPOWuLpGc


	7. Chapter 7

**Present Day**

When Silver left that night, Lyra once again walked partway home with him. His stomach was uncomfortably full; he had stayed for dinner. Adrianna had been quite the conversationalist, asking him plenty of questions and listening thoughtfully to the answers he gave between heaping plates of food that seemed to refill of their own volition. _That must run in that family,_ he thought, remembering times in which Lyra’s mother had loaded his plate with more food than he’d ever seen his life. He wondered if his stomach would burst from everything that he ate. When had he last eaten that much, anyway?

As they walked, Silver kept an eye on Lyra. She seemed tranquil. What had happened earlier in the afternoon between them seemed as though it wasn’t on her mind, for the space between then was comfortable and amicable. She glanced up at him. “Hey,” she greeted him. The sunset cast a warm, pinkish hue over her.

He dipped his head. “Hi,” he responded.

Lyra nudged him with her elbow. “Man, I don’t know about you, but I had a pretty wild day.”

“Yeah, me too,” he retorted. “This crazy piano woman forced me to come to her house and play with her.”

She whistled. “Wow. I spent all day with this weird violin player in my house. He wouldn’t stop playing chromatic pizzicatos in my living room.”

Straight-faced, Silver responded, in English, “He sounds like a dick.”

Lyra was quiet for a moment before laughing. “Nah, he’s no first chair trumpet.”

They came to the spot where they had separated days prior. Lyra paused, watching him. Her hair was floating around in the breeze, almost entirely free of the ponytail now. Silver remembered she’d tied his hair back earlier. He started to reach to let his hair down, but Lyra raised her hand and shook her head. “Don’t worry about it. I have like twenty in a drawer in the guest room back home.”

He felt the fabric in his hair; it was silky, much finer than the cheap hair ties he bought at corner stores. “It feels kind of expensive.”

“And I said don’t worry about it,” she responded, her tone airy. She smiled at him. “I know you own hair ties, but it’s windy out. Wouldn’t want you getting blinded by your own hair during your walk back. Consider it risk management.”

Silver shoved his shoulder into the wall of the building they were standing by, a minute bookstore with a brick façade. He deigned to ignore her playful jibe; there was something else on his mind. “Hey, Lyra,” he said. She looked up at him, curious. “I have a question.”

“Shoot,” she said, inching closer to him to get out of the way of foot traffic.

“Come to my place tomorrow. Meet me here and I’ll show you where you have to go.” he said.

Something flashed through her eyes. Before Silver could catch what it was, her mouth twitched and her expression calmed. “That’s not really a question. But yeah. I’m covering until two tomorrow, but then I’m free the rest of the day.” An expression crossed over her features. “The thing is, if we want to practice, I’d have to haul my keyboard all the way out here.”

“We don’t have to practice tomorrow. I want to get a little more familiar with the music on my own, I think. I’d have time in the morning before you came over,” he said.

Lyra’s brow rumpled for a brief second before it smoothed. She shoved her hands in her pockets and gazed at the surroundings, smiling. “Yeah. I’m happy to come to your place. I’ll meet you here at like 2:15, then?” she said, pointing downwards at the sidewalk at this corner.

He nodded. “If you’re late I will toss you in a canal.”

“Good to know. If you’re late I’ll…uh, try to push you in a canal? I don’t think I could lift you very well,” Lyra responded, her expression bemused. She shook it off and gave him a wave. “I won’t keep you any longer. I’ll meet you here at 2:15 tomorrow, then?”

He nodded. He began to walk home, returning her wave before he left. When he got home, he set his violin case on his desk before regarding his apartment. It really wasn’t anything special; it was a studio apartment where the rooms ran together with little distinction. A narrow island counter was all that separated his kitchen from his living room. There wasn’t one room in his

He dropped onto the couch and heaved a sigh. Silver knew the plants on his balcony needed some watering, especially the sweet potato vines, even though it had been raining. There was likely a bill that needed paying. But he was tired, and he had a lot to think about.  Not to mention he was supposed to drag himself out of the house to join Proton and some coworkers in their barhopping, but Silver was considering skipping it.

His phone buzzed in his pocket. He pulled it out, and Silver opened his texts. Lyra had sent a selfie with a peace sign thrown up, her smile in it given with abandon. _See you tomorrow!_ Her text said.

He smiled and sent back a quick text that just said _Can’t wait._ Silver set his phone on the coffee table and laid back on the couch. Unable to contain himself, he covered his face with his hands. Over these past few days, she was making him _so damned happy._ There wasn’t a thing she did that didn’t make him feel as though his life was decent. Would it last? He didn’t know. But the feeling was certainly welcome, being with her again.

He stared at the ceiling above him, peeling and white-washed, almost happy. Screw Proton’s bar crawl; he was going to bask in the glow of the afternoon into the night. He decided he’d just watch for thumb tacks and other pointed objects for the foreseeable future. He grabbed his laptop off the coffee table, set a playlist of blues and funk, and just… _was_. Silver popped in his earbuds, letting the music wash over him. The rain had started again outside, drizzling lightly, and the streetlights were beginning to glow orange. Part of him wished he was in the States, where summer nights were punctuated with fireflies and somehow exuded a gelatinous, humid peace.

His phone buzzed again, and Silver picked it up to a text from Proton. _Are you coming?_ It asked.

He responded, _Not tonight. I’m busy. I’ll see you next time I work._ Silver silenced his phone, tossed his phone aside, cranked up his music, and closed his eyes. The rest of the night was his to enjoy on his own.

* * *

**Present Day**

“So he invited you to his apartment?”

“Sure did.”

“You’re going there this afternoon? After covering?”

“Absolutely.”

“You’re going as a friend.”

“Uh…yes. Because we’re friends.”

“You seem a bit dressed up for that.”

Lyra tore her eyes away from the mirror, where she had been applying mascara, to look at Adrianna. Her aunt was propped in the doorway, her face flickering with revelry. Lyra scoffed. “What are you talking about? I always put on mascara,” she responded. “Have you seen what my eyelashes look like without it?” She resumed her earlier task, brushing her lower lashes into a dark, lush frame.

“If someone said ‘Wow, your car is beat up,’ would you respond with ‘Oh of course, it has a few rust spots!’ when the rear bumper is hanging off?” Adrianna asked her.

Lyra paused yet again. “So what if my car is rusty? What are you saying?”

She made a sweeping wave toward Lyra and scoffed. “Are you playing stupid? No matter. Don’t answer that. I don’t want to know. What I mean is that this outfit doesn’t seem normal for you.”

Lyra glanced down at herself. She was wearing her favorite sundress, an off-the-shoulder garment with a simple red and white floral print, and strappy, complicated sandals. She fixed a simple black choker around her neck; it suited the ensemble. “Yeah. I have to do my laundry. The only clean pair of shorts I have right now is white, and I don’t want to wear white shorts when it’s so rainy. Plus, it’s too warm for jeans today.”

“Is that so?” Adrianna responded.

Lyra nodded and twisted her hair into a side braid. “Yup.” She secured it with a pink ribbon and flipped it over her shoulder with a smile; it was a fresh, inventive look for her.

Adrianna chuckled. “Alright then. Shop opens in twenty. I’m sure the shoppers will appreciate a fresh, pretty, made-up face.” She patted Lyra’s shoulder and walked out.

Lyra straightened her dress and huffed a sigh, once she knew Adrianna was out of earshot. _I don’t like that she’s hinting at feelings between us,_ Lyra thought to herself as she quickly filled in her eyebrows. _I want to figure out what we are on my own. I want to know what I’m feeling._ Currently, she was struggling with preoccupation. Lyra spent more time than she cared to disclose worrying about Silver and what had happened to him.

On top of that, why shouldn’t she be overjoyed to have found a close childhood friend? He had been one of the greatest mysteries and heartbreaks of her life, after all. Lyra threw on a white boyfriend cardigan and exited the bathroom. Maybe Adrianna would get the message if she continued to play dumb, but Lyra knew she was persistent—every woman in this family was annoyingly so.

The shop opened to low traffic. Lyra fidgeted with her necklace and tapped her toe. What she wanted, more than anything, was for her time covering the counter to pass like the blink of an eye. She’d been burning with curiosity—and surprise—ever since he’d invited her over. What kind of place did he keep? Was he tidy? A hoarder? How expensive was it to live in a historic district as someone who worked in a café? More than anything, Lyra wanted to disappear from the counter and rush to the meeting spot, even if Silver wasn’t going to arrive for a few more hours. She checked her phone, noting a few social media notifications from her friends Kris and Ethan, as well as a text message notification from her mother. She sighed and propped her elbows on the counter. Prepared for a slow afternoon and few customers, Lyra resigned herself to her work.

Few customers came in and by during the first two hours of her shift. An elderly American woman inquired about the price of a china doll, wrinkled her nose, and walked out. A young couple, two boys no older than her from Spain, came in and spoke a more rapid Castilian Spanish than Lyra was prepared to deal with. They purchased heavy golden rings and took off, hand in hand.

By the time her relief, one of the college students, came in, she just about leapt out of her seat to embrace her. The minute she briefed the relief, she ran halfway upstairs, yelled, “I’m heading out! Bye!” to Adrianna, and sprinted back out into the street, opening an umbrella against the drizzle. Her purse banged against her leg. It was five minutes past two, and she wanted to meet Silver on time.

She reached the meeting spot with a minute to spare. Lyra sighed with relief and stood in front of the bookstore. The light blue umbrella shaded her from the light rain and cast her in a wash of cool light, casting ashy tones over her skin. As she waited, she pulled her phone from her purse. She texted her mother back and glanced at a post Kris had tagged her in hours earlier.

Lyra heard footsteps approaching. She pushed her phone into her purse and angled her umbrella up to look at the street. Approaching her was Silver, in all black as usual, with a black umbrella over his head. His clothes seemed more modern today: a black hoodie unzipped over a dark shirt and jeans of the same color. “ _Ciao,_ ” she greeted him. He stopped near her, also tipping his umbrella properly to see her.  His hair was tied back today, a low knot at the base of his skull. “Right on the dot, huh? How about that?”

He glanced at his watch and nodded. “Yup. Looks like I don’t have to throw you in the canal.”

She adjusted the strap of her purse. “Thank God. That’d be more laundry I’d have to do.” Lyra glanced around. “So, which way do we go to the apartment?”

He pointed back the way he came. “That way. Follow me.”

Lyra fell into step with him. Today, he seemed to be more mindful of her shorter steps. “How tall are you?” she asked him, noting how long his legs were in comparison to hers.

“178 centimeters,” he replied. After a moment, he added, “I think that’s like five foot ten.”

“Sounds about right. I’m…” Lyra sighed. “Four foot eleven. Not sure how many centimeters that is. Not even five feet tall.”

He snorted. “I think that’s 150 centimeters. Have you even grown since I left?”

“Like four inches, maybe,” she muttered. “I blame my parents for this bullshit. Why would a five foot six Japanese man marry a five foot two Italian woman? It’s like they wanted a ridiculously short child.”

“Or at the time your parents thought they liked each other,” Silver pointed out.

“Sounds fake, but okay.” Lyra glanced at him, walking along with one hand in his pocket and the other clutching his umbrella. “Thank God we don’t have to share an umbrella. I think mine would ruin your aesthetic.”

He pulled his hand from his hoodie pocket and flicked her umbrella, scattering her with raindrops. “Don’t tell me what’ll ruin my aesthetic.”

Lyra gasped, indignant, and flicked him back…on his forearm. She couldn’t quite reach his umbrella. “Do you wear anything that isn’t black that _isn’t_ your work uniform?”

He was silent, a very pregnant pause stretching between them, before he responded. “Gray. When my black shirts are in the wash.”

She chuckled at him. The rest of the walk was quiet in a companionable way. Lyra didn’t want to fill the yawning silence with pointless chatter; there was plenty of time to talk his ear off whenever they arrived at his apartment. They were out of a more touristy area now, into a place where the buildings were more visibly affected by water and tides. Watermarks and stains on building weren’t as well cleaned and hidden here. A strong smell of mold wafted as they passed the narrowest building Lyra had seen in this city. Venice worked hard to restore its historic _sestieri_ and buildings, but it seemed some places were like forgotten grottos in a vast, complex network.

He came to a building, lower and broader than Lyra was accustomed to seeing in Venice. There was a wrought-iron fence boxing in a sodden garden, where only sparse, spiky grasses and what Lyra recognized to be marsh marigold grew. Lyra noticed black watermarks on the side of the building, and she noticed him fidgeting. “So, this is my building. I live up there.” He pointed at the second floor at the corner; Lyra noticed a patio covered in plants and windows left opened just a crack. “I mean…it isn’t much. But it’s mine,” he said.

Lyra shot him a thumbs-up. “Sure is.” She watched as he pulled out keys to unlock the gate. He pulled it open, the metal complaining, and waved her through. Lyra closed the umbrella and walked past him. “Thank you.”

He nodded to her and closed the gate behind them, locking it. Lyra waited for Silver to walk past her before going up to the door. “It smells a little moldy on the first floor because it’s been so wet, but the building itself doesn’t have mold,” he informed her as he unlocked the door.

Lyra entered the building. The lighting was low; a lack of windows in the hallway cast a gloomy feeling along the long, yellow-painted hallways. The floors were a nondescript dark brown wood. It seemed warped in areas, creaking as she strode forward, away from the door. She watched as Silver pocketed his keys and closed his umbrella, hanging it by its hooked end from his arm. “Sorry it’s so damned dark. Land lady refuses to change the lighting in here,” he said.

“It’s like you forget where I grew up. It smelled like boiled chicken on the first floor, and half the lights were out in the halls,” she responded gently. Though his mouth quirk, Lyra noticed worry that flickered through his eyes. She followed him through the hall, up a flight of stairs, and to the second floor. At the first door, he unlocked it and pushed the door open. He gestured for her to walk through. Lyra stepped over the rug.

The walls of his apartment were off-white, giving the interior of the apartment a warm glow. Dark wood from the hallway continued into the apartment, though the floor seemed to creak less as Lyra moved into the room. His space was mostly devoid of mess—as well as most anything else. The kitchen and living room were one room, separated partly by an island counter. Two stools sat in front of it, and an electric kettle and a bunch of bananas were the only things on top of it. Every appliance seemed yellowed and outdated; there wasn’t even a window into the oven.

His living room was quite plain. Lyra noticed his coffee table was rather cluttered, filled with papers. His couch was red and looked well-used, with a gray knit blanket folded and thrown over the back. His instruments and a music stand occupied another corner, a safe distance away from a window that was just barely cracked open—Lyra noticed a few instrument cases there beside violin and cello. Other than the bare necessities, there wasn’t much. There was a painting, sleepy green and Impressionist, hanging on the wall, as well as a strange, distorted face. “What is that?” she asked, pointing at it.

“ _Bocca della verita._ My boss gave it to me as a joke, but unfortunately for him I unironically love it _,_ ” he responded. Mouth of truth. Lyra felt him snag her umbrella from her hand. “I have a spot for those.” She tore her gaze away from the bizarre decoration to watch him shove her umbrella and his into a large metal pot, likely meant to be used for gardening.

She looked around at the apartment. There was a doorway, straddling the invisible line between the kitchen and living room, where the door was just barely cracked open. “My room’s through there. Bathroom is attached to my bedroom. My apartment and the one next door used to be one apartment, and I guess I ended up with the master bedroom with the attached bathroom,” he commented. He was standing close to her, their arms nearly touching. His hands were buried deep in his hoodie’s pockets. “Yeah. It’s…small. Shabby. I don’t own much.”

She shrugged. “Looks comfy to me.” She walked to his couch, resting her hands on the back of it. His apartment smelled clean, but… _like him,_ she realized. His smell was strong here, tinged with the scent of cleaners, cigarette smoke, and honeyed green tea. It was a comforting sensation. To know he had a place, that he was safe and off the streets, put her at ease.

She felt his gaze burning into her. Lyra turned to see him, his eyes guarded. “Are you alright?” she asked him.

He sighed. “I don’t know what the hell I’m doing,” he responded. He pulled his hand over his face. “It’s weird having someone in here. It felt like a good idea yesterday. I wanted you here. But now I feel like you’re looking at all of this and finding new things to worry about.”

Lyra turned herself around to look at him, both hands gripping the back of the couch. The apprehension in his features made Lyra feel as though a rock had dropped in her stomach; was he really that worried about her being in his apartment? She gave him her most luminous smile. “This makes me less worried. I’m glad to see you have a place to come home to. It’s cozy.” Her grip tightened on the couch. “Plus, to know you’ve managed this on your own, at 18? That’s pretty cool. I don’t know anyone who’s independent like this at your age back home.”

Silver mumbled, “19.”

Lyra tilted her head. “What?”

He sighed. “I’m…19. I’m turning 20 in December.”

Her eyebrows raised slightly, surprised. “Did your birth year change when you move overseas?”

Silver snorted. Though the sound was amused, his expression seemed cynical and jaded. He moved past her and into the kitchen. “It’s raining. Do you want tea?”

Lyra’s head was spinning. _How is he 19 all of a sudden? I thought he was only 10 months older, not almost two years older._ “Sure,” she responded.

“Get comfortable,” he suggested to her. She walked around the couch and settled herself on one end. The fabric almost felt like corduroy, and the cushions were rather soft.

Lyra watched Silver as he set up the kettle to run. _19 years old,_ she thought to herself, peering at him. He certainly looked older than her, but he had from the time they were nine or ten. She just assumed he had one of those faces “So…” she trailed off and flipped her braid over her shoulder. “I don’t want to push, but you probably shouldn’t say that and not explain at least a little.”

“My age, you mean?” he responded, his eyes flicking up to her. He flicked a switch on the kettle and walked over to the couch. He settled on it, resting his feet on an open corner of his coffee table. “It’s pretty simple. Giovanni lied.”

Lyra’s expression must have begged a brief explanation, for Silver folded his arms over his stomach and said, “He literally told me the wrong birth year for my entire life. I’m a year older than he claimed I was. On top of that, he withheld my birth certificate. Lied about _where_ I was born, too. I didn’t get it until…” he trailed off, his expression vitriolic enough to curdle milk. “Yeah, anyway. He was a real bastard, you know?”

“Yeah, I know.” She tucked her legs under herself and angled herself toward him.

He glanced at her. “I don’t think I’m ready to get into what happened.”

“Then I won’t push,” she responded. Lyra settled her hands into her lap and gestured at his coffee table. “What have you been up to in here? That’s a metric fuck-ton of paper.”

From that point on, Lyra learned a great deal about what Silver had been up do in the past few years, other than working. It turned out he wrote prolifically. He wrote in Italian, English, and even in German. He had tried many genres of writing—memoirs, essays, poetry, novellas. Binder clips held drafts together, marked all over in red pen. She watched in wonder as he scrolled through folders chock-full of drafts in his laptop. “It’s never going to make me money, but I feel more like a person when I do it,” he told her, as he brought over their mugs of tea. “It’s like playing violin. It keeps me centered.”

“What’s your favorite kind of thing to write?” she asked him.

“Things I understand and feel,” he told her. “I don’t care about the genre.” Lyra had the feeling he’d written some very heavy, dark writing. He was disinterested in showing her anything, stacking his papers back together as quickly as he pulled them out.

He’d also been working with the cello. Lyra noted, with amusement, it didn’t take much goading for him to show off. “I’m not exactly that good. At least not as good as I am with the violin. It’s not my favorite instrument,” he warned her as he brought it out. In comparison to his violin, its condition was poorer. The body of the instrument bore a myriad of scratches and it took far longer to tune. She noted he tuned to his own hum, a low, soft sound that seemed to come from his chest.  Some of his hair was falling free of its containment, falling over his eyes and tickling the tip of his nose. A strong, absurd urge to smooth it back overtook Lyra, but she swallowed it back and watched as he resettled himself, satisfied with its tuning. He drew his bow experimentally across, pulling out a grave, ominous A that warbled just a little too much.

“Sounds a little worse for wear,” Lyra noted.

He nodded. “It’s taken a lot of abuse.” Without further ado, he launched into a rather energetic tango that cut against the sludgy, rainy quality of the afternoon. It surprised her, coming from him—part of her had assumed he’d play low, brooding music with it. His fingers danced nimbly over the strings, the bow glancing feather-light above the bridge. Silver was correct to say he wasn’t as good as he was with the violin, but Lyra enjoyed his playing, nonetheless. The tension ran from his face as he played through the tune.  His toe tapped time on the floor, and he slowed until ending on a low, rumbling note that Lyra could feel in her stomach.

She regarded him and his tattered instrument thoughtfully. “I liked that song. You play it really well.” She reached toward the cello, hesitating. “Can I take a look at it?”

“No.” He handed it to her, earning a raised eyebrow from Lyra after his staunch verbal rejection, and she adjusted herself to prop it between her knees. Its presence was foreign, much like trumpet had felt when she first picked it up.

Lyra rested her fingers across the strings. Where were the keys? The valves? Its smooth surface and tense strings were peculiar, to say the least. It felt like a lifetime ago that she had toyed with this instrument, plucking “basslines” that were likely the repetition of three notes over and over. “I don’t even know where my fingers go,” she admitted, plucking a string idly.

“Maybe on the strings,” Silver suggested, his tone just a touch too sarcastic.

Lyra sighed and wiggled her fingers at him. “Already did step one, buddy. What’s step two?”

Silver was about to answer when his phone began vibrating from where it sat on the coffee table. He held up one finger and checked it. The light in his eyes faded. “It’s my boss. Let me take this quick. Don’t move a muscle.”

“Too late, I’m breathing,” she responded.

He didn’t acknowledge her jesting as he responded, “ _Che succede, coglione?”_ He started walking toward his room, where Lyra could hear his voice laced with irritation.

 _Who greets their boss with “What’s up, jackass?”_ Lyra thought with a scoff. From what Silver had told her, he and his boss had a more casual, familial relationship than the average boss and employee. Lyra thought of her managers back home, who often frowned if she as much as said “crap” within the premises of the coffee shop.

Lyra took a sip of the tea Silver made while she waited for him to return. Her eyes watered from its bitterness; was it actually green tea, or had he accidentally made rosehip? She set the cup aside and cleared her throat, the sound light as to not disturb Silver’s phone call. Carefully, she set the cello to the side. Her mind wandered back to the information Silver had given her. What sense did it make for Giovanni to _lie_ to Silver about his age? Lyra remembered Silver’s father as cold and calculating, but lying to his son about something as important as that seemed particularly cruel.

Her brows lifted. Silver said he had his birth certificate. Wouldn’t that mean he knew who his mother was now, at least? Giovanni hadn’t even told his son his mother’s name while they were growing up. Lyra was _dying_ to ask, but was there an appropriate time to ask that? She didn’t want to push him; even if he seemed happier and more comfortable with her, who was to say he wouldn’t pull away?

Fretting, she chewed on the skin around her thumbnail. _On his own terms. Right. I said I’d let him tell me these things on his own terms,_ she reminded herself. She sunk her teeth in a bit harder, eyes watering at the pain that coursed up her thumb and into her forearm. _I need to be patient._

Silver returned shortly after, his expression soured. “Sorry, he was harassing me. I didn’t go out on a bar crawl with him and some of my coworkers last night. He’s warning me about the thumbtacks he’s hiding in all my favorite corners.”

“Sounds petty. Why didn’t you go out with them?” Lyra asked, taking a sip of the green tea again. She had forgotten about its acrid flavor and struggled to keep her face neutral.

A weird look flickered over his features. It disappeared quickly, and Silver glanced at the tea. “You don’t have to drink it if you don’t like it. I like really bitter tea.”

“I’m picking up on that,” Lyra admitted, feeling her eye twitch from the effort to keep a straight face.

Silver took it from her. “I’m gonna finish this, if you don’t mind. It’s a shame your taste is shit.”

Lyra shot him a pair of finger guns. “Shit taste and proud. What’s a bar crawl in Venice like, though? Or a bar crawl at all? I don’t think I’ve even stepped in a bar. Also my experience with alcohol is communion wine and a beer at a house party once.”

“You’re really not a good Italian, then. People drink for literally anything here,” he told her. “If you turn eighteen before you go home, you need to hit up an Italian bar, though. People can go pretty hard here,” Silver told her.

They chatted for a while, questions lingering in Lyra’s mind. He somehow worked out his violin again—the cello sitting right where he left it—and picked at the strings as he told her stories about his coworkers. Lyra settled herself into the end of the couch, asking him questions and interjecting with personal anecdotes, quietly burning with a million questions that would riddle their tenuous connection like bullets.

 _It certainly wasn’t an ocean and the Mediterranean that created that distance,_ Lyra thought glumly, externally chuckling at some quip Silver made. _I hope we can close it a little better, in time._

She hated that she couldn’t let it go, the nagging little voice in her head that _had_ to know. _He’s in front of you. He’s with you. Enjoy him now. Don’t worry about then,_ she told herself, but Lyra knew it would bother her for days, if not longer.

* * *

**Present Day**

It was late when Silver left to walk Lyra home—close to eleven o’clock. They’d talked a while and then wandered through Cannaregio when the rain eased up in the evening. Lyra stopped more than a few times to listen to or watch street performers, as well as to buy them gelato once more. “Sometime, you owe me,” she had told him, mouth full of a peach gelato.

Now, in the amber-lit city streets, filled with loud, drunk, _happy_ people, Silver was reminded of the first night they’d spoken, unable to deal with the thought of her finding out about his past. His heart pounded harder whenever he thought of telling her _everything._ What was she going to think? He didn’t want her to worry more, to look at him any differently.

Yet, he sensed it. He saw it when she thought he wasn’t paying attention. Worry and sadness that flickered across her eyes, so fast that she probably didn’t even think that he was paying attention.

 _Am I driving a wedge between us, saying nothing?_ Silver wondered, feeling himself frown. He noticed a gaggle of rowdy, drunk British walking towards them, and he instinctively nudged Lyra and walked half a pace ahead of her. _I wanted to say something on my own terms, but I think I made her worry more today._

He didn’t believe that she was worried about his apartment. She’d genuinely seemed enthused when he showed her the place, and he believed the warmth in her voice when she complimented him on it. As the group passed, ignoring them, he fell back into step beside her.

Lyra regarded him curiously. “What was that about?” She asked this in English, the first words of it he had heard her speak in a while.

“What do you mean?” Silver responded, taking a moment to flip back into that language. She always caught him off guard with it.

“You like…elbowed me off to the side and had this weird, nauseous look. Are you okay?” she asked him.

He shrugged. “Drunk men are bad news.”

She nudged him back. “Were you worried about me?”

“Maybe,” he responded, his tone avoidant. Her eyes crinkled at this. Ruffled, he added, “they’re noisy and stupid. I wanted to get us away from them.”

“ _Suuuuure._ ” They walked quietly from then on, Lyra not as chatty as she normally was. What did that mean? Had Silver said the wrong thing?

They reached the halfway point, that bookstore that was now closed. The dark glass of the windows caught the streetlights and reflected the faint red of Silver’s hair. Lyra paused here. “I can walk on my own from here. I don’t want to make you walk all the way back to your place alone,” she told him, flipping back into Italian.

“No,” he told her firmly. “It’s late.”

“I’ve walked in the dark before,” she said stubbornly.

Silver shook his head. “I’m not going to let you walk back in the dark. Half the city is out drunk tonight.”

Lyra regarded him and shrugged. “Alright. I just don’t want to make you go out of your way.”

“It really isn’t for you,” he said. He didn’t realize how that sounded until it slipped past his lips. He felt his face burn, but he didn’t have anything to sputter to even _try_ to cover it up.

She glanced down, at the street between her feet. “You’re being a good friend,” she said. There was something else in her tone, something that Silver couldn’t place, but she patted his bicep, back to her buoyant, bubbly smile. “Alright, Silver. For the next ten minutes or so, you’re my personal bodyguard. Get me home in one piece. Leave no enemy alive. Snap some necks if you have to. But if you take a bullet for me, you’re fired forever.”

“What the hell?” he muttered, but he felt his mouth quirk, nonetheless. “I could kill a man with one thumb.”

She giggled. Lyra drew closer to him, their arms nearly brushing now as they walked. Silver nervously thrust his hands into his pockets. The silence returned, and it left Silver to ponder what he was thinking earlier. Why was Lyra so concerned with appearing happy around him? What was it that he exuded that made her feel the need to constantly be blithe?

No more than a street over from her apartment, Silver paused under a streetlight. “Lyra,” he said, making her pause and look at him. “Can I ask you something?”

“You can’t borrow my cardigan. It won’t suit your complexion,” she responded, her tone joking. She noticed his expression, serious, and her half-grin faded. “I feel like this is going to be kind of serious.”

He sighed and leaned against the lamp post. The waters of a canal could be heard nearby, slapping against its embankments moodily. After a moment, Silver stated, “When we’re hanging out, you look sad a lot.”

Her eyebrows lowered. “That’s not a question.” Her voice held an edge of warning in it, a soft lethality that Silver elected to ignore.

Silver pushed on, “When you think I’m not looking, I catch these looks on your face. I think…you worry about me a lot, or something, and I don’t know what to do about. What about being around me is making you like this? Is it something that I’ve done.”

Lyra folded her arms across her chest. She stammered, “Well, you—Silver, I really—”

“I don’t want to…I don’t want to push you away.” Lyra’s sputtering fell silent. The city fell silent around them. “I know there’s a lot I haven’t said yet. There’s a lot I’m struggling to talk about and get around to.”

“I know that,” she responded, her voice soft now. The tone was truly soft, no hint of anything to it. She reached out and rested her hand on his shoulder. “I’m…it just bugs me sometimes, you know? And that’s on me. You’re not doing anything wrong.”

“I’m not?” Silver responded, his tone incredulous.

She shook her head, her mouth cracking into a relieved smile. “I was pretty worried that I was making distance between us. Should’ve known. You’re not stupid, and I’m not good at acting natural.” She squeezed his shoulder and dropped her hand. “Tell me things on your own terms. We’ve found each other again, and we have months and years ahead of us. I don’t have to know right now, as much as I want to.”

He regarded her. The streetlights brought out that faint copper in her hair, its glints visible in her braid under the lamplight. “Yeah, I’m not stupid. Don’t make me worry about you,” he told her.

“That’s my line, you ass,” she muttered, but she was chuckling now. Her relief was apparent. “God, seriously, the last thing I want is to drive you away, you know?”

Affection for her coiled within him. “Yeah?”

“Yeah.” He could tell she wanted to make a joke, but she swallowed it. Looking at him directly, she said, “I really like having you around, Silver.”

He scratched at his jaw, awkwardly. Unsure of how to respond, he jibed, “You honestly have the worst taste.”

“Hey! I’m being serious here! You jerk!” she berated him. He started walking again, and she jogged to keep up with him.

At her door, Silver waited as Lyra dug around for her keys. The lights were still on upstairs, yellow and warm against the ruddy darkness. After a moment, she asked, her tone jokingly sultry, “Up for a nightcap, good ole bodyguard?”

He must have recoiled, for she had to stifle the bark of laughter that threatened to peal from her lips. “I’m half-joking. For real, can I grab you anything before you walk back? Leftovers? A snack? Anything?”

Silver shook his head. “Nah.”

When she retrieved her keys and went to unlock the door, a strange compulsion overcame Silver. As her hand hovered over the lock, he reached out and grabbed her wrist, halting her. He cleared his throat and stated, “Tomorrow I’ll tell you a few more things. It’s easier than just spewing all this bullshit at once.”

Lyra’s eyes flashed. “You don’t have to if you feel uncomfortable,” she said, but the edge of eagerness overtook the accommodating words.

He released her wrist. “You want to know. And I think I’m okay talking about some things,” he said. As she unlocked the door, Silver took a few steps back. “Text me in the morning.”

Lyra nodded. Her customary, unafflicted smile returned. “Of course I will. Let’s hang out here tomorrow and work on the duet, too. I also found a few other things we could read through, if you’re interested.”

“That…” Silver settled for being genuine. “That sounds good.”

Lyra flashed him a sprightly wave and opened the door. “It does, doesn’t it? Go home, Silver. Get some sleep. Gonna put you through the ringer with some of this music tomorrow.”

Silver watched as she went in. He waited until the lock clicked behind her to start walking back. _Why did I think that was going to be so much harder than it was?_ He thought to himself, shoving his hands in his pockets. _Why did I overcomplicate that conversation with her?_

He thought back on her words. “I really like having you around, Silver,” she’d said, her voice genuine.

Silver knew exactly what he was going to tell her tomorrow. There was something she needed to know, something he’d shirked telling her prior to this point. Though they hadn’t spent a great deal of time together, Lyra had revealed more about herself to Silver than he had to her, and he knew, begrudgingly enough, that it wasn’t fair.

He walked home in the dark, made of two parts lantern light from Lyra’s kindness, and one part cold shadow from the facts he knew he had to say.

But for her, it was more than worth it.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi, darlings. I've returned with an update. I had finals, a collection due, and some other things that made this update take several months to write, which is frustrating.
> 
> I will probably return to this and make some grammatical edits at some point, but I've reworked this too much and currently can't look at it anymore without feeling annoyed with myself haha. 
> 
> Some music from this chapter:
> 
> Silver's blues/funk taste is honestly atrocious and I'm not going to get into what the boy may have listened to. I know what it is. You all don't need to know.
> 
> The tango Silver played was Tango para Ilaria, Carter Brey. He absolutely did not sound as nice as this cellist does: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=uIac7Wv0I_Y
> 
> Enough ragging on Silver. Until next update, take care! I'm hoping to be able to update a bit more frequently during the summer.
> 
> ~Mars


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm doing an uncustomary at the beginning of the chapter author's note. Before/during this chapter, I recommend you listen to a piece called "Prelude to the Afternoon of a Faun" by Debussy. Piano or orchestrated is fine. Just...I really recommend being familiar with this piece. Describing music verbally is kinda meh and this is an important jam.
> 
> Orchestral: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=9_7loz-HWUM
> 
> Piano: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=HgHgCVUSLEw

**Six Years Ago**

The weather was abysmal. April was unfolding into May, yet it still sleeted out, something that bothered Lyra horribly as she trudged along a sidewalk that hadn’t been shoveled in several long hours. Her mother was all of two or three paces ahead of her, and Silver lagged a good four paces behind.

Yet, this weather could not put a dent in her mood. Lyra was attending her first professional recital, something she had been talking to her mother about for close to a year.

She glanced back at him, bundled in thick, dark layers of clothing, and sighed. “C’mon, dude. We’re not gonna be late for this recital, okay?”

“I don’t see why I had to come,” he grumbled as he jogged to catch up. Silver _despised_ the cold, something he reminded everyone of with great frequency. “It’s piano. I don’t play piano.”

“But it’s gonna be good! And it’s free, because Mom’s friend knows a guy.” When he didn’t continue to hustle, Lyra grabbed him by the sleeve and slogged along even faster. “We’re coming, Mom! I promise.”

“Don’t slip,” was all her mother said back as they walked.

They finally reached the church the recital was being played in. The person playing, a piano performance doctorate, supposedly proved difficult to catch in concert. Her recital was a ticketed event, and they’d sold quickly. It was through sheer luck her mother had procured these tickets; a coworker, knowing of Lyra’s interest in piano and of Silver’s constant presence in their household, slid them three tickets.

“Why’s this thing in a church?” Lyra asked her mom as they trotted up the steps. “If he’s some college professor type why wouldn’t he play at his school?”

“The acoustics and intimacy, I’d imagine. Plus, I think he’s just a doctorate student yet, anyway,” her mother responded. She hustled Lyra and Silver through the doors, and they passed off their tickets to a wide-eyed college student in an ill-fitting black sheath dress. They found seats, about halfway through the chapel. Lyra was squished in tightly between her mother and Silver. The place itself seemed standard for any church Lyra had set foot in: uncomfortable wooden pews and tacky stained-glass windows—still less ostentatious than a cathedral.

Immediately upon sitting down in this chapel, Lyra felt far too warm. While she tried to wiggle out of her coat, Silver stayed wrapped tightly in his. “You’re still cold?” she asked him.

“Yeah,” he grumbled. “Not taking it off. This weather is sh…gross,” he finished, noticing a sidelong glare from Lyra’s mother.

With Silver still bundled in his jacket and the church filling up, Lyra contemplated the impending event with a sense of excitement. She had been to other student recitals and listened to her own piano teacher play, but she had never been to the recital of an up and coming professional.

Eventually, a man stood up from the front row, and a hush fell over the gathering crowd. He looked average enough to Lyra, but as he sat down at the piano, it became apparent that he wasn’t _average._ He eased into a deceptively gentle Rachmaninoff, one that began to boil over in tempo and energy. Her toe tapped in time, her jaw slack at the fervent energy that began to swirl through the piece. Yet, in spite of the manic aura of the piece, the man’s playing made it seem effortless. The chapel resonated with the sound, and it was all Lyra could do to top herself from bobbing along to the music.

At the end of the piece, there was applause. The man spoke a few words. His voice was warm, happy go-lucky, but Lyra didn’t know _what_ he said. She stared at his hands and then shifted her gaze to her own, flexing her fingers in wonder. _Could I play like that one day?_ Lyra thought to herself. _Could I be where he is?_ He sat down to play once more, and thoughts were lost to the ocean of sound, ebbing and flowing around Lyra as she stared and listened and _felt._

The recital moved far too quickly for her tastes. He followed the Rachmaninoff with Dvorak, Copland, Chopin, composers she hadn’t even heard of prior to the event, providing her with octurnes and sonatinas and toccatas that whirled through her head. She wondered if her heart was even beating. She barely remembered her mother or Silver.

After a moody Gershwin piece, he stood again and bowed his head. “This will be my second to last piece,” he said, his voice honied. “I’m sure you’ve all read the program notes, but this piece isn’t often performed as a piano solo. I hope to do it justice.” He then sat down, pushing sweaty hair from his forehead and played a note that changed Lyra’s life.

That C-sharp that resounded through the chapel, immediately followed by a dramatic chromatic scale that bent below the C-sharp before reaching back to it, entranced Lyra. The stark notes opened into a deep, dark flood of sound. He bobbed and weaved over the piano as the piece entangled Lyra, drawing her further and further in. _What is this?_ Lyra thought. She leaned as the piece picked up its tempo and played with it. The man playing it was seemingly inconsequential; who had written _such_ perfection?

Lyra closed her eyes. Her toe couldn’t find a beat to tap to, nor her brain a melody to hold onto. It alternated between passionate and frigid, melodic and chaotic. Never had she listened to a piece that made her feel so unsettled and entranced all at once.

Then, before she could make sense of its form and structure, it ended. People began to clap, but Lyra felt dumbfounded, somehow cheated that it had ended so soon. Silver dug his elbow into her arm. She looked over, eyes wild, to see him clapping, almost in her direction as if to say, “Please clap.” She clapped, mind racing. She pulled out her program notes and flipped through to find the piece she had just listened to.

“ _‘_ Prelude to the Afternoon of a Faun.’ Debussy,” she read to herself, almost inaudible.

He played one more piece. It was some silly, energetic tango, but it meant little to Lyra. He had just played a piece so entrancing that she couldn’t focus on this comparatively inconsequential piece. At the end, they stood and clapped. He bowed and thanked the audience. As people began to clear from the chapel, Lyra felt herself moving. She shoved past Silver and through the people filling the aisles. She _had_ to ask this man.

At the front, he was speaking with a gray-haired woman in a purple sweater dress and a bespectacled boy who looked to be in his late teens. They were talking, excited and involved, but Lyra had more important matters to attend to. “Hey,” she said. When they didn’t immediately notice, she cleared her throat. With an air of authority, she repeated herself. “Hey. Excuse me.”

The man looked over at her. Up close, he looked even more normal. Average height, brown hair, brown eyes. But his hands and his mind had teamed up to _perform that masterpiece._ “Hello, miss. I’ll be in the lobby soon if you’re looking to ask a question,” he said. Surprise, perhaps at being accosted by an 11-year-old girl, lifted his brows.

“This is quick, I promise,” Lyra said. She glanced over her shoulder to see her mother pushing up the aisle, her face filling with wrath, with a perplexed Silver in tow. She swallowed and put her hands on her hips. “How old are you?”

“I’ll be 33 tomorrow.” he responded.

“Okay. When could you play the Debussy? The…the Prelude?” she asked.

He laughed. “I was in my twenties when I first took that piece on. Why so curious about it?” he asked her. His companions exchanged glances, wondering why this man was engaging an overly direct child’s questions.

“I want to play it,” she said. Lyra pointed to herself. “I’m Lyra Aoki. I’m eleven, and I really like piano.”

“Lyra!” her mom had now caught up, and she felt a vice-like grip on her bicep. “I’m so sorry that she came up here like this,” she apologized to the man.

He shook his head. “Oh, no, she has questions. I don’t mind one bit. I think a piece I played spoke to her.”

“If you listen to her talk long enough, every piece speaks to her,” Silver muttered. He’d materialized at Lyra’s free elbow.

She ignored their comments, refusing to break eye contact with this man. “How can I get really good?” she asked him. “So I can play like you?”

“Practice. And a whole lot of love,” he told her. “Especially the love. If you go through the motions practicing, you won’t have those meaningful performances.” He dug into the pocket of his tuxedo and walked up to her. He handed off a card to her. “I think you’re not going to have any issues with that. That’s my card. I have a studio, if you’re looking for different teacher.”

Her mother thanked him for his time. On the way home, she reminded Lyra to not run off, but her tone was markedly softer. “What was it about that piece and the way he played that spoke to you? That wasn’t nearly my favorite,” she remarked.

“Not mine, either. Just saying, that sounds better with an orchestra,” Silver added.

Lyra huffed, “It just did.” The snow had stopped, but the wind was still cold and damp, making her skin crawl. “It just made me really happy for some reason. I want to play it someday.”

Her mother ruffled her hair affectionately. “Like he said, keep practicing.”

“With love,” Lyra added. Her fingers closed around his card in her pocket. A moment later, she added, “I’ll be him someday. Maybe even better than him.”

Silver laughed. “He has a big head start on you.”

In spite of his jibe, Lyra’s fire would not die. That night, at home, she sat in front of her keyboard. Silver had gone home, as his father expected him for dinner, and her mother was in the kitchen with hot tea and a romance novel. Her fingers hovered over the keys. _Meaningful performances,_ she told herself. In the quiet of the winter, burning like the sun in summer, Lyra tentatively played that C#, letting it ring through the apartment.

* * *

 

**Modern Day**

A loud vibration on the nightstand startled Lyra awake. She sat up, heart beating too fast from the scare, and shoved her hair off her forehead when she noticed it was just her phone. _I thought I put it on silent last night,_ she thought, rubbing her cheek. The clock read 7:45, the bright red numbers the only color in the room. Between the drawn lace curtains and gray light of yet another rainy day, it felt a good four hours earlier than it was. Tempted to roll over and go back to sleep, despite an impending alarm, Lyra forced herself to look at her phone.

When she checked it, she felt her eyebrow quirk. It was a text from Silver. She opened it and read, _I’m up. Let me know when you are._

Lyra texted back, _I’m up now! Your message woke me up._

She set the phone aside and pulled her hair into a ponytail. Until she washed her hair, it had to be off her neck and forehead. The phone buzzed again. Silver had responded, _I thought you were a morning person._

_Not when you keep me out late,_ she reminded him. Lyra went to her dresser and realized she still hadn’t done laundry—she needed clean shorts desperately, but showering took precedence over laundry that morning. She sighed and dug through her drawers. There was a red, tiny skirt, one she’d bought with the hopes of going to a nightclub after she turned 18. A pair of jeans that wasn’t appropriate for the heat. At the back of a drawer she found a pair of plain black leggings cropped at the knee. “These’ll do,” she muttered to herself. She found an oversized red tank top in one drawer. Gathering up her garments and her phone, she headed to the bathroom.

Before she stripped for the shower, Silver had responded, _Sorry, didn’t realize you were Cinderella. Next time I’ll get you home before you turn into a pumpkin._ Lyra rolled her eyes and decided to shower before responding. That boy knew full well that wasn’t how that fairy tale worked.

As she showered, Lyra thought. The night before with him had been...intense. There was an unspeakable, strange energy resonating between them, a tension that flamed between them. She wondered what he had been thinking or feeling. Her mind wandered to his touch. The way he’d nudged her out of the way near the drunks, the way he’d gripped her wrist—how did he feel about her? _Are we friends, or is there something more?_ Lyra thought. His gaze on her had been so intense.

Her face grew hot, and she wasn’t sure if it was from the nearly scalding water or from that memory.

She showered as quickly as possible, towel-dried her hair, and dressed in the bathroom. The tank top’s arm holes felt massive, but the swingy fabric was appreciated as she set about doing laundry.

As she put the first load in, she remembered Silver’s text. Tugging her phone from the waist band of her leggings, she stared at his message. The thoughts were returning again, wondering about what he thought of her. After a moment’s hesitation, she texted him, _When would you be ready to come over?_

His reply was within seconds, making her half an hour wait seem cruelly extensive. _I am now._

She sighed and pushed her damp hair from her forehead. Lyra felt awkward, suddenly. His intensity burned, and something told her that energy hadn’t died from the night before. _I look like a disaster. Aesthetic 0/10,_ she warned him. A second later, she added, _Don’t forget you agreed to tell me about some of your past today. And bring your violin._

His next reply was slower, which was fine for her. She started coffee when her phone buzzed again. Silver simply responded, _I didn’t forget. Can I come?_

She texted back, _Just knock when you get here._ From there, Lyra heard no more response. She leaned against the counter, waiting for the coffee to brew, alone with her thoughts. Neither her aunt nor her uncle had emerged that morning, but both were staunch night owls. The only sound was the coffeemaker, the ticking of the clock on the wall, and rain drumming on the porch outside. She wondered what the energy between her and Silver would be today. What were they moving toward?

When her coffee was ready, she mixed in cream, sugar, and cinnamon. Black coffee was not in order this morning, nor was she sure that she could stomach its acidity. She sliced off a chunk of bread, grabbed her mug, and settled in the living room behind her keyboard. She powered it on and turned the volume as low as it would go, balancing her coffee and her chunk of bread on one end. Lyra worked on scales, constantly flipping her hair out of her face, and moved onto rhythm and articulation exercises. She played through an easy etude, one etched into her memory from years of practice. _Heart in it,_ she reminded herself. She cast thoughts of Silver aside and settled herself into the bittersweet, tender etude.

She swayed and devoted herself to it. It felt as though it had been a while since she had thrown herself into a piece; Silver had left her preoccupied. She played with the tempo and articulation, grinning when it sounded choppy and inhaling when it slid smooth as butter from her fingers.

When she finished the etude, she sighed and settled back. Lyra knew she could look at “Libertango” before Silver arrived, but her curiosity of Silver’s progress kept her from pulling out that sheet music. She leaned over the keyboard. There was a hint of a melody whispering in her mind, something she toyed with now and again. Maybe she could play with that while she waited for Silver to show up?

Before she could begin to play it, she heard a knock faintly. _Was I really warming up for that long or did he sprint over here?_ Lyra thought, amused. She shoved her bread in her mouth and navigated through the apartment. Once downstairs, she unlocked the door and opened it. “Oh hey,” she said to him, mouthful of bread. Other than a bemused expression, Silver wore the same black hoodie as yesterday over a shirt and worn cargos to match. He was carrying his violin and a canvas tote bag; his hair and clothes were damp from rain.

In spite of his appearance, he regarded her with a snort. “Casual, aren’t we?”

“Stuff it. It’s like eight thirty and I’m doing laundry,” she told him. “Plus, you’re wearing cargo pants. You can’t talk.”

He blustered as he followed her up the stairs. Lyra gave him a pointed look, lifting a finger to her lips. “My aunt and uncle are still sleeping. I think they’ll be up pretty soon, but until then just…hush.”

Once in the kitchen, he set the tote bag on the table. “Oh, I brought you something,” he said. Lyra’s eyebrows quirked. He pulled out a plastic container containing a pastry. “I went to help a server at work this morning. The system locked him out and Proton wasn’t around to help, so I did. He insisted on giving me a pastry.”

“No wonder you were up so early. You don’t seem to be a morning person,” Lyra remarked.

“Not remotely,” he suggested. He pushed the container toward her. “I don’t really like these. It’s filled with a strawberry cream, I think. Not into fruit flavors. I thought you might like it,” he said, glancing away from her.

She chuckled. “I’ll take a free strawberry pastry any day. Thank you. I’ll eat it later, though. Really sweet things hurt my stomach in the morning.” She put it in the refrigerator, excited to eat it later

She offered him some bread and leftovers of a vegetable dish her aunt and uncle had eaten the night before, both of which he accepted. As she sat down across from him, his food heating, she raised an eyebrow. “So is…Proton…your boss?”

“Oh. Yeah. Don’t ask me why he goes by Proton,” Silver responded, eyes rolling. “Rejected rocket scientist or something, maybe.”

She snorted. “Yeah, that’s not a normal human being name, is it?”

“It’s definitely not his real name. It’s some ugly, grandfatherly name, if I remember right, but that’s not the kind of thing you’d bring up to him. Unless you _really_ like thumb tacks,” Silver said, his expression becoming comically stark and pitiful. “After these days off, I really have to look out for those.”

She laughed, mystified. “Why do you work for a man who, uh, plants thumbtacks places?”

The microwave dinged. Lyra started to get up to grab his food, but he was already up. He grabbed the dish from the microwave, and as he walked back, Silver simply said, “I’m able to survive here because of him. I wouldn’t have been able to stay in this city if he hadn’t taken me under his wing,” he admitted. “He was the bridge that helped me make ends meet.”

She watched him as she sat down. He inhaled the food in front of him. “How did you meet him?”

“I actually knew him from ages ago. He worked for Giovanni at one point, but then they cut ties when I was fourteen or fifteen,” he said. “It was sheer luck I ran into him at all. I’d been here about a month, living in the modern part of this city. I was doing odd jobs to get by and trying to get into an ensemble as a violinist, but I was only 17. Most people wanted to know why a kid was harassing them for work, and that wasn’t a question I could answer.”

Lyra pondered his answer as he resumed eating. She twisted a strand of her hair, still damp, around her finger before asking, “He ran into you and you got a job from him?”

“Yeah. He wanted to know how my father was. I…told him I wasn’t with my father, you know?” He quickly polished off his food and toyed with his water glass as he talked. “He said Giovanni finally got what he deserved and asked if I wanted a job and an apartment in the historic _sestieri._ I was hungry, desperate, annoyed. So I took it. That’s the short version of how that went,” Silver concluded.

Lyra nodded slowly. She crossed her legs and bounced her heel. “What kind of work did he do for Giovanni?”

“I think he was his protégé at one point, in my father’s particular line of work,” Silver remarked. His expression grew uncomfortable. “I’ll answer more today, but right now I don’t…quite feel comfortable talking about that particular thing.”

She gave a nod. “No problem. How are you feeling about ‘Libertango’?”

They chatted about the piece, Silver showing her places in his music where he had comments or concerns. A while after, Adrianna poked her head into the kitchen. “Good morning. Oh, Silver’s here,” she said, blearily. “Hi Silver. Are you living in my apartment now?”

He blushed profusely. “N-no,” he responded.

“I’m due to have some children here soon. You’ve picked a bad place to crash, just so you know,” she informed him. She caught Lyra’s eye and winked, riling her niece. Adrianna made her customary scrambled eggs, peppering Silver with questions, and then disappeared down into the shop. As she descended the stairs, she said, “Feel free to play whenever you want. Your uncle was supposed to be up two hours ago. He needs to go take his mother out on errands today.”

“We’ll get him right out of bed, don’t you worry!” Lyra called after her. Once Adrianna descended the stairs, she sighed. “Sorry, I don’t…I don’t know why she’s always so salacious.”

“Salacious?” Silver said, snorting. “That’s one word for it.”

Lyra lifted an eyebrow. “You respect my aunt or I’ll kick your ass across the Mediterranean.”

They set up in the living room. Lyra unfolded her many pages of music, stretching them across her stand, and waited for Silver to tune. “Do you want an A?” she asked him. He nodded, and she pressed an A. She watched him tune. The intense concentration in his face, drawing his pale features to angles, was endearing. Lyra remembered him as a child, taking a long time to tune and adjust his instrument.

Silver glanced over at her. “What are you smiling at?” He tightened one last peg and gave her a quizzical look.

“You,” she said. “I like the way you tune and play.”

His face noticeably reddened. He glanced away fast. “Uh, thanks.”

“It’s clear you have a lot of love for what you do.” She tapped at the beginning of the piece. “Let’s try this from the top. If we get bored, I have a few things we can try reading.”

The day off from playing had encouraged improvement. Without delay they locked into each other, attuned to one another. The tango simmered, flooding the apartment with low, heated sound. Lyra pushed into Silver while he pulled back, and vice versa. Playing it was a tango of itself, a coordinated one filled with an unspoken dialogue. Lyra was absorbed into it, watching Silver’s body for cues and making eye contact whenever there was a change in the music.

They played through without stopping, and at the end, as the final chord rang through the apartment, a stillness settled over them. Lyra felt overly warm, sweat beading along her hairline. Lyra looked up to Silver, eyes wide. His hair was falling in his face, free of the messy knot at the back of his neck. Her mouth cracked into a smile. “That was pretty fantastic, don’t you think?”

“I screwed up, though,” he said. “Like around measure—”

“Dude, I messed up a few things, too.” She leaned back on her stool, folding her arms across her chest. She flipped into English to say, “But you can’t deny that wasn’t special.”

He tried to scoff, but his face split into a smile. “Yeah, I guess.”

“You guess? Oh my God.” She dropped her hands onto the key, slamming a discordant chord through the room. Lyra pointed at him. “It was _great._ Kiss my ass.”

Silver huffed, blowing strands of hair from his face. “Jesus Christ. Okay. Let’s try it again. I was really hung up on my counting error,” he said.

They played through it again. Lyra felt Silver’s eyes on her more, his pale gray gaze almost burning. That same, feverish energy was returning. Lyra’s fingers felt mechanical, precise, in spite of this energy, not missing a single note as she accompanied Silver’s melody. He was increasingly impassioned by it, his eyes bright, his breathing deep. This time, immediately after the last note, Silver pulled his violin from under his chin. “That went well,” he said, his voice sincere.

“No really? Do you feel it, though?” Lyra remarked, but she couldn’t help but smile.

“Yeah,” he said, his voice small. He wiped his arm across his forehead. Silver’s face was quite red, trying  fiercely to match the tone of his hair. “That was special.”

“It was special before, too. Don’t be so hard on yourself. You’ve had this piece for two days, you know? It doesn’t have to be perfect,” she assured him. His expression wasn’t clear, but it was deep, dark, somber. Lyra watched him and sighed. She stood from the bench to smoothing the hem of her shirt. She then approached him where he stood.

He glanced at her. “What are you doing?”

“You seem…sad,” she said to him. “We played something beautiful, and you’re sad.”

“I get hung up on mistakes, and I miss the big picture for it,” he muttered. The violin dangled from his fingertips now. He crouched and set it on the floor.

As he lowered himself, so did she to meet his gaze. “Hey,” she said. “Music is about enjoying it. If you’re not able to enjoy playing right now, we can try again in a bit, okay? If it’s passionless, there’s no point to it. My teacher always told me that.”

His eyes seemed to focus again, and they immediately narrowed. “Teacher? Wasn’t that the load of crock that piano master’s guy told you?”

“Doctorate,” she corrected. “I became his student after…after you left. About a year after,” she said.

His brows lifted. “Really?”

“Yeah. Dr. Elm. Well, Professor Elm now. He struggled to get a professor position for a while, so he taught private lessons. He’s extremely quiet and kind of awkward outside of a performance setting, wouldn’t you know?” She laughed. Silver settled cross-legged on the floor, and Lyra followed suit. “I started with him when I was about to turn fourteen.”

He nodded slowly. “Yeah. You were…really excited about the Debussy that day.”

She snorted. “I didn’t live that down, you know.” Her mind wandered to the prelude. Drawn to memories that she wanted to shake like cobwebs, she made herself smile. “I can play it now, you know. It’s not perfect, but I can play it.”

He glanced at her, surprised. “Isn’t that a really technically difficult piece?”

“Yeah, the rhythms really gave me a run for my money. But I was determined. And it—” she cut herself off. “Well, I’ll tell you in a bit. I want to prove I can do this.”

She rose, paused to dust off her leggings, and settled herself at the piano. She found her hands hovering, her pinky yearning to strike the C#. For a split second, she was drawn back to a particular memory, one that seemed stronger now that Silver was here, watching her with those pale, curious eyes.

* * *

**Four Years Ago**

“Lyra, are you ever going to touch it again?”

Drawn from her pre-algebra homework, Lyra glanced back at her mother. The radio was blasting peppy 80’s pop, and the autumn breeze threaded through the apartment. Knowing full-well what Norma was referring to, she said, “You’re going to have to be more specific. What is it that I haven’t touched?”

“Watch your tone.” Norma approached the kitchen table and sat down. She had just gotten home from work; she had unbuttoned the top buttons on her blouse and had removed her belt. Lyra knew if she glanced behind herself, she’d see her mother’s favorite pumps, magenta and increasingly well-worn, sitting in the corner near the fridge. “Look at me.”

Lyra sighed, shoved her pencil in the workbook, and looked up. Her mother’s face was a storm of emotion: exhaustion, anger, sadness. “It’s been almost six months, Lyra. When are you going to pick it back up?”

“I don’t want to,” she said. She glanced through the open doorway, at her keyboard propped on its side near the living room closet.

Norma folded her arms over her chest. “I don’t want it sitting here collecting dust if you won’t use it. I will take it to a secondhand shop or something.”

“No.” Lyra slammed the cover of her workbook shut. “It has to stay here.”

“I can’t have it here if you aren’t using it. We live in an apartment, not in a goddamned mansion, if you weren’t aware.” Her mother’s ire had raised now, as did the color to her cheeks. She sighed and ran a hand through her hair. “At the end of the month, I’m taking it to St. James’ collection.”

Lyra shook her head. “No. You’re not giving it to the church. They’re not giving it. It needs to stay here.”

Norma leaned back in her chair. The ire in her expression was fading, replaced with pity. “What are you waiting for?”

She shrugged. “The end of the world, maybe. I’m going to finish my homework in my room.”

Norma let Lyra stump away, her workbook tucked under one arm and her textbook balanced precariously in her other hand. In her room, Lyra didn’t even reopen it. She set them on her desk and flopped on her bed. She hated, hated, _hated_ it when her mother brought up getting rid of the keyboard. It was hers! It was her favorite possession!

Whenever she sat at it, though, nothing came from her fingers. No music. Not even a plunked note. She sat and stared, hating herself for having no inspiration and lamenting that she couldn’t be arsed to.

_What are you waiting for?_ Norma had asked. It wasn’t so much that she was waiting that it was that she was suddenly alone again. There was no one to compete with musically; Ethan had just started voice lessons and guitar, but he wasn’t taking them seriously. No other kids in the neighborhood were serious about music. Her mother, as artistic as she was, couldn’t discuss and hypothesize about music the way Lyra wanted to. Without Silver, to sit at the piano was to sit before a well of potential with no way to access it.

She missed him. She missed him, she missed him, _she missed him._ Five months without him in comparison to the six _years_ she had known him felt like nothing. He was her best friend, and he had disappeared, and left her with a keyboard she couldn’t be bothered to play.

The night wore on around her, and she tried to pick through her math homework. She hated math. She hated school, really. Lyra always had, but it felt like a burden in her life now when it had felt merely inconvenient before. “Why do they give us thirty problems to do when I knew this after five?” Lyra grumbled to herself.

After a while, feeling frustrated and fearing the loss of her keyboard, she pushed it aside once more. There were five problems to go; they would be easy enough to do on the morning’s bus ride. Outside, the autumn sky was as orange as the leaves on the trees, falling in transience to the wan, gray ground. Winter was coming; the greenery outside her apartment would soon be black and brown, which lowered Lyra’s mood further.

She decided to flick on the radio in her room. She flipped through stations. Country, metal, alternative, pop. None of it appealed to her. Lyra idly dialed through until a figment of a melody caught her attention, setting what felt like her entire nervous system on fire.

There it was. That C#. Not the beginning of the piece, no. But it was toward the middle, with wavering, oceanic chords that forced Lyra to sit down. _The Prelude,_ she thought. She grabbed her radio from the desk and turned it up, despite the poor audio quality from a weak AM station. She laid back and set the radio next to her head. Through the crackling, she heard the piece that had called so strongly to her soul.

When it drew to a close and the applause started, Lyra turned the radio off. She stared at the ceiling, her breathing ragged. What did it mean, that it had played right then? What did it mean that she had been fiddling with the radio at that exact moment? Her fingers began to itch again. Cautiously, Lyra rose and looked at her hands. _Could I play again?_ Lyra thought. _Five months without playing, and I want to try to play…that._

She exited her room, dreamlike. Her mother listened to jazz in the kitchen, to one of Duke Ellington’s more eclectic pieces (a flute solo feature, if one could believe that!), but the apartment otherwise seemed hushed. She grabbed the keyboard and blew dust from it. She set up its stand and pulled the stool from the closet. Glancing at the kitchen, she saw that the door was just cracked open. It was doubtful Norma would come out while she set up. She plugged it in by the window and powered it on.

In the orange light, Lyra saw the display light up. Her fingers hovered over the keys, and her pinky did it. It slowly arced down and pressed the C#, cutting through the hush in the apartment once more.

Every subsequent note came from her fingers, each one clumsy and heavily premeditated, but they came. And when she reached the spot she no longer knew the music, she struck a heavy chord. “Oh my God,” she whispered to herself. She launched into a simple etude, each note feeling more and more natural, each feeling less difficult, each becoming increasingly…perfect.

The door to the kitchen opened. Her mother’s face stared out. “You’re…playing,” she said, her brows arched in surprise.

Lyra paused. “Yeah, I am.”

“You were…playing that Debussy. The opening of it,” Norma said. Her lips were upturning at the corners, threatening to smile. “Is my little piano player coming back to me?”

“I haven’t even been able to touch this.” She raced through a scale, stumbling on every third note, but she laughed. “I suck, but I’m happy I suck. It means I can play.”

“Whatever you say. Should I call your teacher back up?”

Lyra nodded. “Yeah.”

“If you do a few months with your regular teacher, I’ll get you in with that doctorate guy,” Norma said. “Does that sound fair enough?”

Lyra nodded and smiled. Norma grinned and clapped her hands together, clearly excited. “I’ll leave you to play. I think that’s what you need right now.” As Norma retreated, Lyra stared at the keys beneath her fingers. She tapped each experimentally, and a bittersweet feeling overcame her.

She played the C# again. Repeatedly. It rang through the apartment, and she felt her eyes burn with the threat of tears. Lyra could play without Silver there, right? It wasn’t sacrilegious. _I never have played without him in my life,_ she thought, _but…it’s the only thing I’m good at. It’s one of the only things I like to do. I have to keep doing it, no matter what._

She broke herself of the C# and eased herself into a quiet, simple etude. Another person couldn’t be her happiness. “I won’t stop playing again,” she murmured, imagining how furious Silver would be to know she’d stopped. Her eyes overflowed as she played, haltingly, slowly, self-consciously. “I’m a pianist. I’m going to be famous. I’ll have a fancy studio. I won’t ever stop playing again. I promise you, but…I promise myself, too.”

-

**Modern Day**

The C# rang through the apartment, before Lyra even realized what she was doing. _Shit._ She focused, feeling her way through the chromatics. Each note lingered, somehow solemn and delighted and sweet all rolled into one. She didn’t need sheet music for it. “Prelude to the Afternoon of a Faun” was written in her soul, devoid of notation at this point. Whatever she was playing wasn’t exact; no, it wasn’t what Professor Elm would have played that day. But it was what her heart knew the song to be.

The song ebbed out into a broader structure, and she played with abandon. Tempo and rhythm were loose, mere suggestions as she explored the peace. Her face split into a smile as she went along. In some ways, it meant everything to her. Without it, she doubted she’d be playing piano, let alone attending a college.

As the piece peaked and then descended, she closed her eyes. She didn’t need to look at the keys. She knew them. The complicated chords and rhythms meant little to her, but the hazy, mystical sound of the piece rang through the apartment, a song far too intimate to play for a crowd larger than one in her mind.

When she hit the last chord, she opened her eyes and relaxed. Her body had grown tense with the piece’s indescribable energy, and she cracked her fingers. “Yeah. So…that’s that. That’s Prelude, Lyra style.”

Silver gazed up at her from where he sat. “You played it from memory.”

“I mean, sort of,” Lyra responded, settling back on her chair. She beamed. “I…have actually maybe looked at music for this like four or five times tops. I was playing what it felt like to me more than what it actually is. Like when someone draws a caricature of you, and they exaggerate what they think are your most prominent features. That’s a Lyra caricature of that piece.”

He regarded her. “It was probably one of the most special, personal things I’ve ever heard.”

Lyra felt her face grow hot. “You flatter me,” she said, flapping a hand at him with a nervous laugh.

“I could tell from your face that piece really means something. Don’t downplay it.” He stood up and moved to her. Lyra scooted over on her bench so he could sit by her. They were thigh to thigh now. “You’re always really invested in your music, but Prelude was on a different level. There was something you wanted to tell me, so you should tell me.” Quickly he added, “If you want to.”

Lyra sighed. She rested her hands over the keys and played a few soft A major chords and various inversions of them, filling the apartment with a hopeful sound. “Yeah. Don’t…don’t get mad at me for saying this, alright? I was unable to play piano for about six months after you left.”

Silver was silent, so Lyra pressed on. She stopped playing, unable to distract herself from the floodgates that were creaking open. “Every time I sat down in front of my keyboard, I couldn’t manage to play. I’d stare at it. I couldn’t even touch it, you know? I started playing when you lived in that building with us. You…encouraged me. You were learning violin, and we both went through super shitty, early stages of learning together. You wanted to talk on the level I did. We were kind of rivals, a little bit.” Lyra laughed, gazing at the ceiling. “We both wanted to be better than one another. You auditioned into _that_ youth orchestra. I was invited to accompany vocal and instrumental soloists at school. But it made us better friends. Then…you were gone.”

She gazed sidelong at Silver, unable to help the sad half-smile that touched her features. “Piano, even if you weren’t playing it or making an effort at playing it, was as much your thing as mine, just because we were learning our instruments together. Without you, I just…couldn’t. And maybe part of me though that if I didn’t play, it would somehow call you back here. You’d be in my house, with my family, and somehow Giovanni wouldn’t be part of the picture. You’d come back and scold me for being an idiot and tell me you’d gotten better than me because I’d stopped. I…wanted that more than anything.”

She fell silent, unable to meet his gaze. She stared at her hands, folded in her lap. “Yeah. I’ve had a pretty cozy life, you know? I’ve been able to do most of what I’ve wanted, within reason. But when you left, I had a really bad time. And one night I heard the Prelude, just flipping through the radio, and I had to play it. It isn’t a commonly performed piece, really. I don’t know if it was just dumb luck or a sign but it made me go out there and play. I played for the first time in months. It was so fucking stupid of me to stop, but I literally couldn’t play for a while without you, you know? And…anyway, I’m sorry. I’ve said way too much.”

A hush fell over the apartment. Lyra was unable to look up; what if Silver was sitting there, judging her and seething? Part of her feared the worst, knowing she had complained about a struggle in her posh little life after Silver disappeared.

“I had no idea.” Lyra looked up, at the sound of a rather hoarse voice, to see Silver with a pained expression. He wasn’t looking at her—he was looking at anything BUT her. “You…couldn’t play? Not one note?”

“That C# saved my life. In the sense of piano playing. I would’ve survived had I not played piano,” she added quickly when Silver looked alarmed. “No, I was just really sad. I didn’t want to die or anything. And I couldn’t play piano.”

He sighed, and the sound was shaky. “Don’t say it like that. You freaked me out.”

“I’m sorry.” She rested her hand on his. He tensed at her touch, and it was then that she realized how close they were, thigh to thigh with hands touching, on the piano bench.

Silver gazed at her hand, a few shades darker, on top of his. “I spent years telling myself you’d just be fine without me.”

Lyra sighed. “I missed you. You were my best friend, and you meant the world to me. I’m so happy to be here with you again.”

He flipped his hand up under Lyra’s. Much to her surprise, he linked his fingers through hers tightly. “I’m sorry I did that to you,” he said, meeting her gaze. His eyes were intensely sad. “I feel like a fucking jackass.”

“You were a kid. You had to go where your dad went, whether that was to mass on Sundays…or to another continent,” she said, her tone growing bitter. She tightened her grip on his hand. “Don’t blame yourself.”

They were silent, hands linked, thighs touching. When had everything between them become so _intimate?_ It seemed like a fast descent from being enthralled with her friend to have this intense…connection. Lyra didn’t know what it was. Before she could ponder it further, Silver said, “My father moved us around a lot for a few reasons.”

Lyra perked up. “Yeah?”

He met her gaze, and his eyes were guarded. His grip on her hand was iron; whatever he was about to say took serious effort. “What I’m about to say is really serious. And it stays between us. I don’t want you saying anything to your aunt or your mom or anyone about this.”

“Just us. Got it,” she said, giving him a nod.

He nodded back. He peered at their hands. “I’m going to be really frank. The first part of it was my father’s lifestyle. Giovanni dad was a big-time criminal. An arms dealer with a huge international business. He sold to terrorists, nationalists, literally _anyone_ so long as they had funds. And he scalped them. He made huge profits off of it. Though his cover was good and he had a lot of fronts, he moved us around a lot to keep people from figuring out what he was up to.”

Lyra’s stomach knotted at his words, but he continued, and the more he spoke the more Lyra felt physically sick. “The second part of it was that my father kept that lifestyle from my mother. She found out when I was about two what my father was, and he took off on her. Giovanni feared she’d turn him in. He moved us around wherever he could. He hid my personal documents and gave me some wrong information so I couldn’t accidentally reveal myself. Not only did I think I was a year younger, but I didn’t know my real middle name until I was in my teens. He even gave me the wrong spelling of our surname. That’s been a bitch to relearn.”

Silver sighed, the sound shaky, and his grip on her hand was so tight it nearly hurt. “The particular reason he pulled us out of America, though, was because he thought your mother was onto him. He thought I forced him to spend too much time around you and her, and she was smart enough to put two and two together. So he moved us one night, and then I spent no more than a year in any European city until I was seventeen.”

He looked at Lyra, and his eyes widened. “Are…are you okay?”

Unable to vocalize the sick feeling that was rushing through her, she released his hand and stood, wobbly. She moved to his side and threw her arms around him, her head buried in his shoulder. “I’m so sorry,” she whimpered, unable to stop herself from tearing up. “I’m so, so sorry, Silver.”

He was silent, but she felt him lean into her embrace. One of his arms loosely linked behind her neck, holding her close. “Why are you sorry?” he asked her. His voice was close to her ear, making her shiver.

“You’ve been through a lot. You don’t have to tell me anything more today, if you don’t want,” she murmured to him. “I didn’t know what I was expecting.”

“Could be worse. He could’ve been like…Stalin in disguise or something,” Silver said, his tone joking. Lyra smiled, in spite herself. “Seriously, though. Don’t cry for me. It’s in the past. It’s a hard, shitty past, but that’s not my life anymore. Also, it’s pissing me off a little.”

“I know it does. You always got mad at me when I cried.” She released him and drew away, rubbing at her eyes. “I’m sorry about that. I just…you’ve been alone and dealing with _that_ for God knows how long.”

“Let me tell you, the few times I’ve been to a therapist, we’ve had fucking field days talking about this stuff,” Silver said, his laugh surprisingly sincere. “It’s hard. I’m never going to like talking about it. But…it’s the truth, and you deserve to know.”

She sat beside him again. “Thank you for telling me,” she said, nudging him.

“There’s so much more shit to unpack, but maybe not right now,” he said. He stood, and his hand brushed her arm as he stood. “We were playing music, and then I was a sad little fuck that ruined it. I have to prove my worth as a violinist.”

Lyra scoffed. “Buddy, you love to snipe the moment.”

He shot her a pair of finger guns before picking up his violin. She rolled his eyes at him before tapping the A he needed to tune. “I have a few other things we can try today, too, if you want,” Lyra told him.

“Sure, but first I have to be really good at this song so I can live with myself,” Silver said. He gave her a nod, signifying that he was ready, and they began to play the tango again, together.

* * *

**Modern Day**

Time flew with Lyra. The morning of violin and piano became a lazy afternoon of Lyra finishing laundry and Silver plucking pizzicatos from his instrument. They chatted, sometimes about shallow things, sometimes about deeper, more thoughtful things. Morning fell to evening, and Adrianna reappeared, asking more questions than Silver knew how to deal with.

When she offered to have Silver for dinner, he told her he’d think about it. He glanced at Lyra. “Can we go somewhere else?” he asked. “I’ll pay. I’ll cook at my place. Literally anything else.”

Lyra laughed. “That’s fine. I’ll let her down easy. Can’t believe you’re turning down a very sweet, super pregnant lady, though. All she wants to do is cook for you,” she teased.

“Fuck off, she’s a married woman. There’s a ring on her finger,” he said, earning a delighted giggle from her.

Soon enough, they were back in the streets. The rain had stopped, but the sky was still overcast. There was more than a threat of rain, Silver feared. Lyra wrapped her arms around herself as they walked toward Silver’s place. “I haven’t been outside once today. I didn’t know it was this brisk out.”

“It’s not that cold,” Silver admonished.

“What kind of food are you thinking about making?” Lyra asked.

“Edible,” he responded. She gave him a pointed look, so he added, “I honestly don’t know. If I don’t have anything, we can order in. There’s a really cheap place that delivers.”

When they passed the halfway point, that bookstore on the corner, rain started falling. “Fucking hell,” Lyra said in English. “I forgot my umbrella on the way out.”

“I don’t have mine, either,” Silver pointed out, in Italian.

“Gross,” she said, matching his language, and they jogged the rest of the way to his apartment. Once there, Silver fumbled with the lock to the building. Once the door opened, Lyra shot into the building and stood, visibly shivering, as Silver pulled the door shut behind him. She regarded him curiously. “We’re actually morons. It’s been raining all day. You walked to my aunt’s place this morning without an umbrella. I didn’t bring one.”

“You’re dumber,” Silver pointed out. “You walked here without a jacket on.”

“I’m too buff to wear sleeves, Silver. I’ll tear any jacket I wear,” she said, her tone jesting as she flexed a rather slender bicep at him. Unable to criticize her further, knowing he was also unprepared for the rain, Silver led her through the building.

At his apartment, Silver unlocked the door and turned the lights on. “I’ll grab you a towel,” he said. “If you as much as sweat on the floor in here it ends up in the apartment below mine.”

He went into his bathroom, snagged a clean towel, worn and red, and returned to Lyra standing and still shivering. Her shirt was thoroughly soaked, hanging heavily around her frame. He handed her the towel and went back to his bedroom. He returned with a black hoodie, almost identical to the one he was wearing. As Lyra toweled her hair off, he tossed the garment to her. “You can borrow this. It’s also clean.”

It dropped on the floor in front of him, and she looked up at him, bewildered. “O-oh. Okay,” she said. Her eyes were huge, almost round as she finished drying off. She walked toward his room. “Do you mind if I hang my shirt to dry in your bathroom? I don’t want to get your hoodie wet, too.”

“Sure,” he said. He watched as she went into his room. His heart, inexplicably, was beating so hard against his ribcage, threatening to burst out of his chest. When had things become so oddly intimate between them? _We’re friends,_ he told himself, but was something beyond that developing?

Lyra walked out, a minute later, zipped into his hoodie. It was comically long; the bottom hem was at mid-thigh, and the sleeves hung past her fingertips. She pushed them up and laughed. “I feel like a little kid wearing my mom’s shirts as a dress. I look ridiculous.”

He rolled his eyes. “Then bring an umbrella next time.” His hoodie was still damp, and Silver slipped out of it, setting it on the stool where Lyra’s towel was. His arms bare and instantly warmer, free of the dampness, he sighed. “Alright. Food. We’ll see what I have.”

He rummaged through his freezer. Miscellaneous assorted frozen vegetables and chicken predominated it. In the refrigerator, he had some tomatoes and a loaf of discounted day-old ciabatta bread that was more than a day-old at this point, as well as milk and cheese. _How do I not have more than this?_ Silver thought with a huff. “Fuck it, we’re ordering out.”

“I can pay my half,” Lyra said.

“Not this time.”

She sighed. “I’m wearing your sweatshirt, dude. Let me pay for my half.”

“I don’t know what you mean, but no.” He pulled a menu off the counter and tossed it to her. “It’s cheap. It’s hot. You keep throwing food at me.”

She sighed and scratched at her head. “Okay. As long as you’re not setting yourself back.”

Half an hour later, they were settled on opposite ends of Silver’s couch, legs intertangled in the middle, eating delivered dishes. Lyra had a white-sauce pasta and a chunk of ciabatta that was far fresher than Silver’s in the fridge. Silver had gone for a chicken panini. “This food is really good for a little cheapy place,” Lyra remarked. “Like seriously hits the spot.”

“I order from them a few times a month. Doesn’t break the bank, and sometimes I can’t shop with the schedule Proton has me on.” He paused. “The only reason I’m off for three days is because I worked overtime for the past six weeks.”

“That’s nuts. The most I’ve worked in a week yet is like…30 hours. That was one week over winter break at the café,” she said.

He shrugged. “It’s just life. I end up working overtime more often than not. Proton owns our place and he just bought some skeevy little bar off another man. He’s not around a lot, so I take over a lot of his work. Considering I’m here at all because of him, I do it and I don’t complain…much,” he added, lifting one eyebrow.

Lyra grinned. They ate the rest of their food in amicable silence, and Silver felt better, having her there with him. When they finished, he took their containers and rinsed them in the sink. As he did, he glanced back at Lyra. The sight of her in his hoodie, with the sleeves rolled back and the hood nearly swallowing her back, made him crack a smile. He realized he liked that sight.

Once he settled back on the couch, sitting with his feet planted on the floor, he glanced over at Lyra. She was eyeing him a certain way, her expression one he didn’t quite understand. Lyra sidled toward him, and then sat directly beside him, their bodies almost touching. “Don’t mind me,” she said, and the rested her head against his shoulder. She drew her legs up, folded so that her right thigh was pressing against his left. “That’s better,” she said.

“What are you doing?” he asked her.

“I don’t know,” she admitted. She started to lift her head. “Should I not?”

He tugged her back into place. “I mean, you were already there, so you should definitely just…stay there,” he said, attempting to sound belligerent and realizing he sounded awkward at best.

Lyra snickered. “Sure.”

Silver relaxed, putting his feet up on the open edge of his coffee table, and relished the feeling of her closeness. Silence had returned, but it was comfortable. Lyra’s eyes were closed, but she certainly wasn’t asleep. His mind wandered to her story and her performance of “Prelude to the Afternoon of a Faun.” For someone who joked around so frequently, her performances were deeply sincere. Her face had expressed every thought she’d ever had about the piece, even ones that had been fleeting. He appreciated how sincere she was when it truly counted.

Lyra giggled. “Now you’re humming the Prelude.”

He glanced down at her. “What?”

“Did you not realize you were humming?” she asked, her mouth quirking. She peered up at him. “That C# was there, and then you were doing the chromatic.”

Embarrassed—and fully aware of his habit—Silver said, “I hum sometimes. I guess.”

“You guess.” She snickered and cuddled in closer. “You hummed a lot when we were kids, too. Then said you weren’t humming. Make up your damned mind,” she said.

“I didn’t hum for a long time. My father wanted to beat that out of me. The best he could do was tell me to stop being such a girl every time I hummed,” he said, his tone souring a bit. Reining himself in, he admitted, “But yeah. No Giovanni around, I was humming everything.”

Lyra sighed. “Yeah, he really didn’t want you to act like yourself, did he?”

“He didn’t,” Silver admitted. He tipped his head back and closed his eyes. Without thinking, he added, “He can’t really do anything about that now, though. Bastard’s long gone. Ding dong and all that.”

Lyra lifted her head. “What?”

Silver realized what slipped out his mouth. Lyra sat back, peering at him. She pulled her knees to her chest and rested her chin on them. “You don’t mean…”

He groaned. Fuck his obnoxious, big fat mouth for divulging _that_ detail. It was something he hadn’t intended to tell her that night. After a moment, he confessed, “Yeah. I do mean that.” Silver looked Lyra in the eyes—her bewildered, brown eyes—and said, “Giovanni is dead.”

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey y'all, thanks for reading this giga update of ~10,000 words. I couldn't bear to split it, so here it is. I apologize if it's hard to read.
> 
> Finally turning up that heat a bit, letting it simmer, and all that. And a reveal of sorts. Yikes.
> 
> I chose Prelude as the piece for Lyra mostly because I had that "kick in the teeth" with it, too, but as an orchestral piece as opposed to piano. I'm no expert piano player, but man if I were really good at piano, I'd try it haha.
> 
> Anyway, links to music referenced:
> 
> The Rachmaninoff I was specifically referencing was Italian Polka: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=YmSDDslA__M
> 
> I was thinking of a Chopin etude for Lyra for her warmup. She was probably also playing this as a young child: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=3uiYB-ElCbg
> 
> The Duke Ellington piece I was referring to. It's called Bourbon Street Jingling Jollies. I've actually performed this piece in a band (I was on tenor sax for it and we had a flutist who...took her time lol) https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=rQu9XwWaBqA


	9. Chapter 9

**Present Day**

“Giovanni is dead.”

It was as though Lyra was playing baseball. Someone had thrown a mean curveball, one that twisted at the last second so it flashed through the strike zone like a meteorite. She was left gawking, uncertain of how to react.

Long seconds passed, in which Lyra gazed at Silver with wide eyes and Silver looked like a deer caught in the headlights, with the added element of greenish nausea. Was this a standoff? Lyra didn’t know. What could she say to him? A yawning, empty pit opened inside her, teetering on the edge of grief. Her eyes were dry, but her throat was tight.

Lyra swallowed past the lump in her throat. The spell was broken now. Sidling closer to him, enjoying his warmth and his smell, wasn’t possible any longer tonight.  She peered up at him, as he gazed with sudden interest at the door of his apartment. “Silver. When did it happen?” she whispered, making him jolt.

“I was seventeen,” he responded, his voice terse. The bewilderment in his eyes was filling with hostility. Lyra frowned as she noticed him plant his feet back on the floor, folding his arms over his stomach. He leaned back, his head tipped back and his brow creased.

“You alright?” she asked him.

He didn’t look at her. “Why did I say that?” he said, not to her. “Why the fuck would I say that?”

She sat, silent. Silver’s gaze knifed across her, sidelong and steely. He repeated, “Lyra, why the _fuck_ would I say that?” His tone was lethally cold.

She held her hands up defensively. “I don’t know, Silver,” she said, her voice dry. The softness of the moment had leeched out, leaving her with the caustic boy she had dealt with her first night with him. “I’m sorry that it came out like that.”

“That’s just it. It _came out._ This is my fourth day seeing you, after five years. I haven’t told anyone in my life what happened, or why I was alone,” he said, his tone dark. He got off the couch and walked to the counter. “Why would I tell you that?”

“I don’t know,” she said, her voice dry. Her heart was beating fast, afraid of what was seething under his skin. “Look, I…I don’t know what to do here. What do you need me to do?”

He rubbed at his face. He pulled his hand away, his eyes dead, exhausted. “What’s your secret to getting what you want?” he said.

Lyra felt her brows lift, her face growing hot. “Pardon?”

“You’re getting what you want. I told you a bunch of shit I didn’t want to say,” he scoffed.

Her bewilderment turned to anger. Lyra slid off the couch. “Stop,” she said. He looked at her, his narrowed eyes widening. “Stop that. I’m not going to put up with you getting pissed at me. You told me what you told me. I don’t know why you did it. But acting like it’s somehow _my fault_ you divulged it? Don’t go there,” she said, her tone bordering on acidic.

Silver fell silent. She shoved her hands into the pockets of her— _his—_ sweatshirt. “I don’t want the truth if anytime you say more than you planned to you’re going to get pissy with me,” she said to him. “I’m not going to apologize to you for something that _you_ said.”

“I don’t fucking expect you to apologize. I just…I don’t get this.” His head hung, defeated. “I didn’t even want to say that, so why the fuck did I say it?”

“Can’t answer that for you,” Lyra said, her tone cool. She stood and began to walk towards his bedroom. “I’m going to change and leave. I was having a good time, but you’re agitated and taking it out on me.”

He snorted. “Taking it out on you?”

“I’m not getting what I want. I want us to be friends. I want answers on your terms. If you tell me what you think is too much and get pissy, I don’t want your answers. I’m not gonna sit here and pry them out of you.” She stopped in his doorway, hands at the zipper of his sweatshirt. Her face was hot as she said, “It’s really comfortable to be with you. I like how you smell. The way your voice sounds. You’re so familiar, but you’re this stranger still. You’re like…when you drive toward a mountain, and you can drive for an hour and feel like you’re never getting any closer to it.The past few days were a nice distraction from that, I guess.”

Before she made it far into his room, Silver’s voice reached her ears. “Stop.” She turned, looking over her shoulder. He shoved his hair out of his face; she watched it tumble over his pale, lean arms with the movement. “This is really, _really_ hard for me.”

“Yeah, I get that. But don’t get mad and act like it’s my fault you’re saying things you’d rather not say,” she retorted, keeping her back to him. She had to fight to keep her jaw gritting.

Silver met her gaze. After an infuriatingly long moment, he said, “I don’t want you to go.”

The tension in her jaw lifted, but a sadness settled in her gut. She turned back toward him. “Then don’t push me away.”

“I…I don’t know how,” he responded, looking away.

She watched as he dragged his hand over his face. “These past few days I just…let you into my life. I barely batted an eye at it. Now you know the big fucking secret of my life, and everything in me says to get you the hell away from me. Whenever people know things about me, it doesn’t go well. It’s leverage. It’s some kind of power you have over me. I don’t want to push you away, but I don’t know how to not.”

Lyra felt her mouth twist into a grim line as the deep sadness in her became like a ball of lead. “I would never hurt you. I hope you know that.”

He was silent. After a moment, he said, “I want to believe that.”

Oh, that _stung._ That sentence was a bullet through the chest. She shoved her shoulder into the doorframe, trying to steady herself. “We’ve hung out for a few days. I’ve done nothing to you. Isn’t that proof enough? Where is this mistrust coming from? Have I ever done anything to you?” her voice felt thick, and she forced herself to remain stalwart. The tears were threatening to come now.

“Don’t…don’t cry,” Silver said, his face bewildered.

“Don’t say that.” Her eyes watered, and Lyra looked away from him. “I don’t think I’ll be staying here any longer tonight. I’ll text you tomorrow when you chill the fuck out.”

Before she could even start to walk through his room to the bathroom, she heard him move closer. She gazed up, to see him standing close to her. “It’s raining hard.”

“I won’t melt,” she said.

“I really don’t want you to walk alone,” he added, his tone uncertain.

She sighed, frustrated. “You don’t want me to go. You don’t want me to walk alone. But you also don’t want me to hear certain things and flip out on me. You don’t want to talk, clearly.” His mouth moved, but no words came out. Frustrated, she threw her hands up in the air and snapped, “I really don’t want to hang out with you tonight if you’re going to be like this. You haven’t even apologized for how you treated me! I’m not some seductress, you know. Some part of you decided to tell me about Giovanni. Don’t blame me for that. I don’t want you always apologizing for shit you say you’re going to do differently.”

He took a half-step back, his face contorting in shock. He was _shocked_ that she was enraged? Really? “Yeah, I know. I got pissy.” She unrolled the sleeves. “If this is how our friendship is going to be, I don’t know that I want to be friends.”

“Lyra.” She turned to walk into the bathroom. “Lyra, I—”

Before Silver could finish his sentence, Lyra’s phone rang loudly. She had left it in the living room, still sitting on Silver’s messy end table. Her eyes flashed to him, and she returned to the couch to accept the phone call.

She retrieved her cell phone, noting Adrianna was calling, and answered. “Hello?” she said, hoping her anger wasn’t bleeding through her voice.

On the other end, Adrianna’s voice sounded huffy. “Hi, so our street is under water. I’m not surprised, personally. This happens at least a few times per summer. The water is not up to the shop, but there’s six inches of water.”

Lyra’s eyes grew wide. “Oh, wow.”

She sighed. “Oh wow is right. I hadn’t expected it. It certainly wasn’t in the forecast, either. The rain thus far has been light, but I suppose the sudden torrential downpour pushed things over the edge.”

Lyra rubbed at her forehead, not liking where this conversation was going. “What does that mean for me, then?”

“Well, it’s supposed to stop raining tonight, meaning the waters will recede soon, but I wouldn’t recommend coming home until the rain stops at the very least. Walking through water like that is not good for your health. And it’s unsafe.”

Her face grew hot. “So…you want me to stay here?”

“I suppose so. I wouldn’t have encouraged you to go out if I had suspected that there would be flooding.” She sighed. “Stay there for now. I’ll text you and let you know if anything changes. Text me if you absolutely have to come home. I’ll send my husband out for you.” Without any further commentary, Adrianna hung up.

Lyra stood, staring at her phone. What a kick in the teeth that call had been, considering the previous conversation. A moment later, she turned to Silver. With great reluctance, she stated, “There’s high water. I’m stuck here.”

* * *

**Present Day**

Having Lyra, seething and cold, in his apartment indefinitely due to flooding was absolutely not one of Silver’s high points. She was sitting at the very far end of his couch, as far away from him as she could, wrapped in _his_ throw blanket, wearing _his_ sweatshirt, but unhappy with _him._ She was looking at her phone, brow rumpled.

Yeah. He had absolutely ruined the moment. In one moment, her head was on his shoulder, and in the next she wanted to leave, and with good reason. In a stark moment of panic, his mouth ran. And ran and ran and ran, and there he was, sitting uncertainly at his own counter while she shrank into his couch, wondering how the hell to fix this.

Lyra glanced over at him. “You’re staring.” He averted his eyes. She sighed and set her phone down, eyes guarded as she watched him. “If there’s something you want to say, you may as well say it. I’m here for the night, apparently.”

“You don’t want to walk through floodwaters. You don’t know what’s in them,” he said.

“I still don’t really want to be here,” she said. The words were like a knife into his chest, even if the tone she spoke them in was light, careful, as measured as adding sugar to soufflé batter. “But I’m not going to disregard Adrianna. She has enough to worry about. I’ll sleep on your couch and leave at the soonest possible opening.”

Silence yawned between them, oppressive and embittering. Silver rubbed at his eyes, wondering how to go about this. Was it better to make an attempt at apologizing? Was it better to give her space? He didn’t know. Why did he have to let his mouth run away from him, spitting poisonous words he scarcely meant to her? _I can’t blame her for being pissed,_ he thought.

Fuck it. He was going to say something. _Anything._ Silver had to try to fix this, right?

He cleared his throat, the sound almost too much in an otherwise silent room. “It’s…it’s not your fault.”

She glanced up. Irritation laced her expressions now, drawing the corners of her mouth tight and her brow dense. “Pardon?”

This was no time to stop. Unable to meet her gaze, he stood and leaned against the counter. “You’re right. You’ve never hurt me. Not once in my life. You just wanted to find me, and I didn’t even help you do that.” He sighed, the sound shaky. “I don’t love myself. Not even a little. I can’t believe you’d want to spend time with me, and that’s what my head says.”

She said nothing, and that made his mouth keep running. “You’ve…never hurt me, and I keep hurting you. Like some kind of fucking loser.”

“Don’t make me feel sorry for you,” she said. “You told me you weren’t going to shove me away, so don’t shove me away. Just talk me through this. What is on your mind?”

He crossed the room and sat on the extreme edge of his couch. His eyes flicked across to her, where she watched him with that neutral expression once more. Silver gazed at her, and in a matter-of-fact voice, he said, “There are few people in my life who haven’t screwed me over. Sometimes, when people are friendly, all I can think about is what they want. When I was homeless, I faked friendliness more times than one, just to get a home or a job or money. Just so someone would do something for me. I look at you, and you’re so kind to me. That part of me wonders if you want something from me. My head tells me you wouldn’t. Not you. Then I say something I wasn’t ready to say, and I’m worried it’ll be used against me later. Then I react from my gut. That’s been the truth of my life.”

Lyra set her phone on the coffee table and rubbed at her neck, hair falling loose from her ponytail. “You said you’d seen a therapist.” There was a note of something like pity in her voice.

He brought his legs up, crossing them and adjusting himself to see her more clearly. _Be honest,_ he reminded himself. He explained, “I do every few months. I was a lot worse before I did, believe it or not,” he said, the laugh he gave cold and hollow. “It’s hard to get time off work to see her. And it’s also hard to open up.”

His hands folded in his lap, and he sighed. “Everything is hard. Being with you is easy, and that’s terrifying.”

Her mouth quirked. In his emotional and physical exhaustion, he couldn’t determine what emotion had been there, ever so briefly. Yet, her voice betrayed her, soft and kind, as she said, “I don’t bite, Silver.”

He watched her closely. She pushed her hands into her—his—pockets and tilted her head at him, her eyes soft and sad. “I don’t want you to push me away. I don’t want this to be a pattern. I believe you don’t want to hurt me. But you keep hurting me. Mom likes to say the road to hell is paved with good intentions. You can mean well all you want, but your actions say something really different.”

He nodded. His face was burning, as were his eyes. _Don’t fucking cry,_ he ordered himself. “I know. I don’t want to do this anymore. I don’t like talking like this.”

“What did your therapist tell you to do in situations like this?” Lyra asked, scooting in closer.

He glanced sidelong at her. “Count to five before reacting.”

“Did you count to five before you said any of that to me?” she asked.

Silver hesitated before saying the world’s tiniest, “No.”

“Alright, maybe start there. I get that you were probably freaking out, and scared, but I didn’t really deserve that.” Lyra leaned in closer to him. “Is there anything else that might help you not do this again? Is there something I can do?”

“It’s honestly my fault,” he said, sighing. “Completely. I think I would snap at the Pope if I felt he was getting too buddy-buddy with me.”

Lyra snorted. She scooted closer and reached out for his hands. Curiously, he accepted hers, and watched her fingers intertwine with his. Her dark eyes flicked upward toward him, her expression earnest. “Listen to me. I don’t really want to be treated like that again in the future, Silver. Use whatever technique you have to stop yourself from acting like that. You’re not stupid. You’re not a loser. You don’t have to talk about yourself like that. You just need to stop and think.”

“It sounds easy when you say it,” he said, his voice sad. “I mean it when I say I don’t want you to go.”

She inched back, releasing his hands, and sat cross-legged. “I don’t have to go. I probably shouldn’t go. Just don’t freak out on me. If you want to talk, I’m here.”

He leaned back, eyeing her with a mixture of relief and pain. Nothing she said was wrong, and in a million ways it both stung and soothed him. The only way he could capture the feeling was to say, “You’re really too good for me.”

“Don’t say that.” She smacked his shoulder, lightly. “You’ve been through some really traumatic shit, and you’re doing alright for yourself.”

He rubbed at his arm. “Yeah. I guess.”

She shot him a smile. Her body and expression were languid now, her eyes containing their usual sparkle. “Good God, that was exhausting.”

“I thought you were going to literally explode there for a while,” Silver mentioned.

She laughed, and then she rubbed at her neck awkwardly. “Yeah. I’m sorry I was so sharp with you.”

“I…probably deserved it,” he hedged.

“Doesn’t matter. That’s not a good way to talk to someone. You don’t say weird bullshit to push me away, and I won’t snap at you. How’s that sound?” She lifted her head to peer at him, sitting and wringing his hands. “You’re on edge still.”

He sighed. _Be honest,_ he reminded himself again. “I think part of me assumed pretty selfishly that you’d never get mad at me.”

She gasped. “Dude! I had the worst temper as a kid! Do you not remember how I was? I was always picking fights with you!”

They spent a few minutes bantering, Silver’s relief apparent in his features. The tension hunching his shoulders and body dissipated, and eventually he leaned back and rested his feet on the corner of the coffee table, laughing and grouching at her as they talked. Lyra scooted back toward him, her expression thawed and her smile warm.

Silence fell again, more amicable this time. Lyra smiled. “Are we good?”

He propped his jaw in his hand. “How do you mean?”

“Are we able to move past this for good? Or is this going to happen again?” she said.

Silver’s stomach twisted at her direct, no-nonsense tone. Despite this, he gave her a determined look. “I don’t want it to happen again. If it happens again, just walk out on me. Go home. I’ll remember I’m a dumbass, grovel, and will be reminded not to do it again.”

“I can’t exactly walk out tonight,” she reminded him, gesturing toward the rain falling outside. “But groveling, huh? I could get on board with that,” she smirked.

“No you fucking won’t,” he said, earning a peal of laughter from her.

After she settled down again, Lyra sighed. More seriously, she added, “If you get worked up, too, you can let me know. I can go into the other room for a while.”

“Okay.” He watched her closely. There was an unspeakable hum between them yet again. They kept drawing closer, her toes inches from his thighs, her hand on the back of the couch nearly touching his. Her hair was utterly unruly. Dark curls and waves were bursting from her ponytail, framing her face, making her eyes look impossibly dark and soft. He couldn’t tear his eyes away. “You had said I smelled nice, when you were angry earlier.”

She nodded. Her face didn’t even twitch at the comment. “You really do.”

He glanced away for  just a moment, the intensity of her gaze almost too much to bear. “I just…shower. I guess. Like anyone else.”

Her giggle brought his attention back to her. “I’m not asking what product you use, you dork.” His throat was pulsing; her eyes slipped there. She watched the barely-there movement and added, “You smell like home to me. You always have.”

“Even when we were kids.”

She nodded. “Yeah. I said always, didn’t I?” Her fingers touched his now, resting over his ever so lightly. “I just…feel like I have to say these things now. There were things I thought as a kid, didn’t really know how to say, and then never got the chance to say it. So I don’t want to waste time, not saying the things I’ve always thought.”

His face burned. “Is…is that so?”

She nodded slowly. “Yup. But that’s all I’ll say for right now. I’m still a bit pissed off, you know. But I believe you’ll get past this, and I believe in you,” she said.

_I believe in you._ The intensity of her gaze and words, in combination with her closeness, were overwhelming. Silver hopped off the couch, half-laughing. “You know what? I’ll be right back.” He walked through the living room, into his bedroom, and into the bathroom. Once the door clicked behind him, he pushed his back into the wood and slid down.

Lyra was _there._ In _his_ apartment. In _his_ sweatshirt. He felt like a mess. His head was a tangle of turmoil, his heart beating a tattoo like a snare in a march.

What the hell was happening between them? Not unlike a wild horse, his heart galloped, slamming against his ribcage so hard that he could scarcely believe it hadn’t burst out of his body like in the movie _Alien._ He buried his face in his hands to exhale a tight breath, the movement long and slow. Everything was _so much._ She believed in him? She, of her own volition, talked to him and supported him even when he was being difficult?

He lifted his head. Yes, he had to stop being as difficult as he was. Treating her as he had earlier that night wasn’t going to endear him to her. Silver didn’t want to ruin whatever was between them. After a few more deep breaths, he stood and smoothed his clothes. Red fabric caught his eye. Lyra’s tank top was hanging over the curtain rod, its bright tone the only color in his otherwise white and gray bathroom. He turned away from it and flicked the water on in his sink. Silver splashed water on his face, trying to calm himself.

She said she _believed in him._

She. Said. She. Believed. In. Him. Of all people. After everything. Did he even deserve that kind of faith?

Looking in the mirror, he glared at himself. Prior to the stern expression, his face had been pale, wild-eyed, and unsettled. “Chill,” he told himself. “Just be cool. For once in your life, asshole. Be cool.”

He quickly pulled his hair back again, using the hairtie she had lent him, and then exited the bathroom. When he came out, walking as casually as he could manage, he saw Lyra in the living room, staring out the window with a melancholy look. Her hands were buried deep in the pockets of _his_ sweatshirt. “I like rain, but not this much rain,” she said as she noticed him approaching. “It’s making me uneasy. What if it never stops? Swallows this city whole?” The anxiety in her tone stung, her tone a distraction from his own troubles.

“Didn’t you hear? That’s what’s supposed to happen in our lifetime, anyway.” He walked up beside her and stared out. The leaves on his plants bounced in the rain, glistening with ruby-tinted water droplets from the streetlamps.

Lyra’s hands gripped the windowsill tightly. “Is that just a fact of life around here?” she said softly.

“Yeah. The city has sunken five inches in one hundred years,” he responded. “There are places in this city that were never underwater that are now always underwater. Certain stairwells. A lot of basements and businesses that flood during high tides. This rain isn’t helping anything.”

She sighed. “Will we know if it gets bad?”

“I haven’t heard any sirens tonight. If more than 12% of the city floods, we’ll hear it. It’s for _acqua alta,_ high water,” he told her. “It’s possible we’ll hear one later if it doesn’t stop.”

Lyra rubbed at her jaw. “I see.” She glanced up at him. “Does it worry you?”

“No. Not really. It’s a fact of life here, like we were talking about. There are some plans to build big pumps and things to protect us from the tides and rain. We’ll see if it works. Doesn’t change that this city is sinking. No idea how long we can fight that for.” He watched a rain drop trickle down the window pane. The earlier intensity was seeping through, making his mouth run. “Venice is kind of like most other things in this world.”

“A little stinky if left out in the hot sun?” Lyra suggested.

His philosophical mood was almost ruined. He offered her little more than a reproachful glance before tracing his finger down the pane at the same pace as a water droplet. “Transient, I guess is what I was thinking,” he said, his tone laced with mockery. She rolled her eyes at him, but she didn’t grant any snark in return. “This place will only exist in memories and history one day, like anything else. We only read about passenger pigeons and telegraphs and things like that now. It’s past us.”

Lyra shrugged. “Sad way for a city to be, though.”

“It’s just the truth. Nothing lasts,” he responded.

Lyra pushed her shoulder into the window frame. He wondered if she was about to chastise him before she responded, “Yeah, we’re not exactly living on a supercontinent right now. We’re not dinosaurs.”

“An absolute fucking travesty,” Silver remarked. She snickered.

Watching the rain fall, Lyra’s eyes were measured, careful. She added, more seriously, “It’s not inherently a bad thing, I think. Would we appreciate flowers if they bloomed all the time? Would we wax philosophical about stars if we saw them all the time? Change is…just part of being on this planet, I guess. Part of anything affected by time.”

He felt his lips quirk a bit at that. Lightning crackled across the sky, followed by a tattoo of thunder, and Lyra recoiled, hopping away from the window. “Holy shit,” she said. “That scared the life out of me.”

“I’ll hold a funeral tomorrow. It will be tasteful. Only the finest hors d'oeuvres will be served at the reception. I’ll even get an attractive woman to come throw herself over your casket sobbing,” he responded, but it didn’t earn any laughter from her. Her expression had become bleak again; the lightning had returned her to concerns about the weather.

His mind raced. What did he need to do? She’d gotten him out of his rough patch earlier; what could he do to take her mind off the weather for the time being? His eyes flicked to his cello. She had been toying with it the other day before he’d been interrupted in a phone call, and they’d never gotten back to it. _Distract her with music. That’s it._

Silver nudged her. “Hey.” She looked up at him. “Go sit down. I’ll bring you my cello.”

“You won’t catch me passing that up,” she responded, her eyes brightening, and she settled on the couch.

Silver grabbed the instrument once more, and he passed it to her, along with the bow. She rested her fingers on the strings as she settled the instrument between her knees. Her hands seemed so tiny and slim, each finger so loosely placed upon a string. “I can’t believe you play this,” she muttered, plucking each string experimentally. “It seems so big.”

“It’s really…” He trailed off before he could say “hard.” Silver felt himself puff up a bit. _She believes in me. I don’t have to self-depreciate._ “It’s really not as hard as it looks.” He slicked loose strands of hair out of his face.

“You make it look easy, then?” she responded. She positioned the bow over the strings. Her posture suggested too much tension. “What’s the trick to this?”

He slouched and gestured for her to do the same. “Relax a little. You’re going to be really sore later if you don’t.”

She nodded at him and relaxed. Her arm remained tense, tight. Shaking his head, Silver leaned over and guided her arm into the proper position, his hand feather-light on her bare forearm. “I’m serious. Relax. You will legitimately feel like an old man in the morning if you don’t ease up.”

She watched him as he pulled his hand away. Lyra moved around experimentally, keeping the more fluid posture. “There you are,” he said. “Any of that’s fine.”

“Interesting. This still feels super awkward, but any new instrument feels awkward.” She drew the bow across the instrument experimentally, letting a squalling chord roil in the apartment. “Oh yuck.”

Silver winced. “Yeah, you were applying way too much pressure there. You’re playing a cello, not _murdering_ a cello.”

“Hey, fuck off,” she retorted, but she was half-laughing as she told him that.

Silver guided her through bowing. It was lighthearted, with a lot of scoffs and laughter. Lyra ignored the rain; Silver kept an ear out for the flood sirens. She was egregious _._ She possessed no natural knack for the instrument, struggling to convey Silver’s directions. “I promise it’s not you. This is like the dumbest thing to me. I can’t believe anyone plays this,” she said, pointing the bow at him. “Nothing against you, of course.”

“You literally can’t figure out where to put your fingers or how to move the bow. No matter _what_ I say.” He sighed, but the sound was good-natured. “Here. Let me show you.”

She passed it over to him, and he placed his fingers and drew the bow across, a warm, ever-so-slightly garbled A ringing through the room. He moved his fingers until he played an F#, the sound thick and dark. He angled the instrument toward her. “Like that.” He drew the bow across his chosen string, the movement and position far more relaxed than what Lyra had managed. He spun it back to her. “Try again.”

She arranged her fingers and drew the bow, but the angle was wrong, her arm too tense. He sighed. “That was actually worse than before. Holy shit. Can I just…here. Will you let me fix this? Let me fix this.”

Lyra laughed. “I’m that hopeless?”

“Truly.” He slid closer to her and, without really thinking, settled himself so that he was partly behind her. Pale gray eyes peered over her shoulder and his hands reached around her, repositioning her and angling her elbow lower. “Try that,” he said.

He noticed that she shivered. “You’re pretty close there, buddy,” she commented, glancing back at him.

“If you didn’t suck, I wouldn’t be here,” he reminded her.

“What are you, twelve?” Regardless, she moved the bow again. There was too much force, and Silver, unable to bear it, lightly adjusted her. His guidance took some of the pressure off with the movement. Her eyes flicked to him, a faint amusement glimmering there. His fingers were light on her arm, guiding the angle and force with which she drew. It sounded warmer and less garbled, the low A that rang forth. “Wow.” She repeated it, the sound closer this time to what Silver had managed with her earlier.

Lyra settled back. Her back was close to his chest now. She drew more long notes, each on open strings, each passable for someone who had just picked up the instrument. “I’ll be better than you at this by the end of the summer! I can see it now!” she declared. The notes were growing ugly again as she lost focus.

He sighed, the gale of his breath flooding out. “Not like that, you won’t.” He nudged her arm back into position. “Focus.”

She visibly shivered again and settled herself forward. “I mean, you’re breathing down my neck. A bit hard to focus like that. Gives me funny feeling,” she told him. The last part was in English, stated in a comical “Russian” accent. Silver’s face flashed red hot.

He scrabbled away from her and pointed an accusing finger at her. “Well, you weren’t doing it right. You needed some, uh, guidance.”

“More like you wanted an excuse to breathe all over me,” she said, her face bright red, but her tone was jovial. “One comment about you smelling nice and you let it get to your head.”

He settled his feet on the edge of the coffee table again and rolled his eyes. “Uh, no, I let _everything_ get to my head. Get your facts right.”

She pointed the bow at him. “Kiss my ass.”

The rainy night was no longer a concern of Lyra’s. Sirens announcing _acqua alta_ did not ring out in the night, and Lyra more or less tortured Silver with her lack of technique. He had accepted his fate, tipping his head back and clasping his hands over his stomach. His ears pricked, ever so slightly, as she plucked at strings. With some amusement he noted that she plucked pizzicatos the way he did, absent-minded chromatics that travelled up and down the length of the instrument.

Part of him watched her goof off, smiling at laughing at her poor technique, and his soul began to feel at ease. _Maybe…I can do this. I don’t have to be like this with her,_ he thought. _She’s right. I have to think._ But he wasn’t thinking. He was watching, probably staring, as she chatted and played. Her hair was making a fierce effort to free itself from the ponytail now, half-floating messily about her shoulders and half-scrunched by the hairtie. The curls and waves pointed in a thousand directions, yet all ends aimed skyward. Lyra was telling a story, something about her cats getting into a box of cotton swaps and making a huge mess, and Silver struggled to focus on anything but the bounce of her hair, the faint, reddish highlights glinting in the darkness of her curls in the dimmed, yellow lights of his apartment. He couldn’t look away from her, from her perfect chaos. Unable to help himself, he leaned forward as she talked. Quickly, he snagged her hairtie and let the rest of her hair loose, letting it spill about her face. She stopped plucking at the stings, her eyes wide. “What was that for?” she said, half-laughing as she shook out the disaster of her locks.

“I…” he trailed off. _It’s hard to look away from you._ “I don’t know.”

“Really?” she challenged. She set the cello gently to the floor, resting the bow on top of it. “Are you sure about that?”

_No. I absolutely know why._ The tender thought notwithstanding, Silver chuckled, the sound roguish, and he folded his arms behind his head and gazed at his peeling ceiling. “I’m a jerk, that’s why.”

She nailed him with his throw blanket, immersing him in darkness. “Time to pay the jerk toll.”

“What the hell? That was rude,” he responded, struggling to free himself from the blanket.

She began to pull the blanket away. “ _Oh really?_ ” She responded, her tone ominous.

Silver grabbed one end of the blanket, not allowing her to take it back. “Blanket privileges are revoked if you’re going to act like a four year old.”

Her brows lifted so high it was as though they were about to take off. She yanked on it. “Says the jerk who doesn’t pay the jerk toll!”

He kept his grip on it and eased off the couch backwards. Lyra scoffed at him and remained sitting, digging her toes into the edge of the couch cushion. Silver smirked and steadily began walking backward. She was forced half-off the couch, which earned him a glare. “Your jerk toll just increased. Better pay up,” she said, through gritted teeth. Her bare feet didn’t find traction on his flooring, and she scowled at him.

“You can’t make me pay,” he said, his tone bordering on singsong. More thoughtfully, he added, “That’s definitely not in the budget, either. Might need to rethink that.”

“It’s tripled! You’re gonna…drown in blankets!” Her words came out exerted as Silver locked his elbows and knees; she wasn’t able to get any leeway from him, and she groaned, seemingly defeated. Her body slackened, and Silver in turn relaxed—an error in judgment. A spark entered her expression, and before Silver could brace himself, she gave the blanket a hefty tug. He wasn’t ready, but his hands were; he gripped the fabric as he lost his balance and stumbled forward. This caused a collision with Lyra, which turned into a collapse of bodies and a tangle of fabric onto his couch. Silver managed to catch the back of the couch with one hand and plant the other to avoid completely squashing Lyra, but he was acutely aware of how much they were _touching._

Lyra stared up at him, and he stared back down. He was waiting for her to burst out laughing, to make some kind of joke—anything to break the tension that had formed again. Her expression was one of shock, her face coloring slowly. She glanced away; he noticed his hand, tense and flattened, between her head and her one free hand, and had the feeling something strangely private and intimate had happened again. His knees framed hers She made no effort to free herself, nor did he have the will to pull away.

She lightly cleared her throat, making his attention snap to her. He felt as though his heart was in his throat as he met her gaze again. “Hey,” she said, her voice soft. Lyra’s eyes seemed velvety black in the weak light. Their gravity dragged him under and kept his eyes on hers when she asked the question he’d been thinking for days: “What is…going on between us?”

He opened his mouth. Then it closed, before he could even squeak out an answer. Silver sighed, watching strands of his hair and hers stir with the movement, and began to pull away. “Who’s to say?” was all he said. He eased off of her, slowly. He didn’t make it far before he felt her hand on his arm. She sat up as he did, almost matching the pace at which he rose, and settled her knees under herself.

Hesitantly, she leaned forward until her forehead rested against his chest. “Who’s to say?” she repeated back. He knelt, still and uncertain, as she turned her cheek to rest there. Her breath tickled across his bare shoulder.

“Not me,” he breathed. He was unsure of how to respond to her, to the warmth and weight of her head against him. If he touched her, would it end the moment? If he didn’t, would that _also_ spoil the moment between them.

She chuckled at his response, the sensation more air than sound. It was less amused and more affectionate, and it spurred him. He wrapped one arm around her, his hand coming up to support her head. She sighed. “I’m just…happy to have you again, you know that?” she whispered. Her hand was at his side, slipping to his lower back. The sensation skittered across his spine in a pleasant way, making his eyes jolt open wide.

“You don’t let me forget it,” he said back. She “ _hmmed”_ in response and said no more. They remained like that for a few minutes, silent, linked, existing in a soft, negative space. Part of him wondered if she was listening to his heart. A yawn interrupted this quiet; he felt the muscles in her jaw jump as she did. It only served to remind him of his own exhaustion. Without thinking about it, he eased himself backward, reclining, and brought Lyra with him. She shifted sideways and took his pace until he was on his back with her head nestled on his chest. Her eyes were closed; the occasional flutter of her eyelashes the only movement he saw from her.

He laid in silence, feeling surprisingly calm, when he glanced at her. Her hand had crept up by her face, resting beside her head on his chest. Much to a mixture of his surprise, pleasure, and amusement, she’d seemingly fallen asleep already, her breath light. It skimmed across his bare shoulder, a soft breeze.

He wanted to think, but no thought crossed his mind. His hand held her head to him, and he closed his own eyes now. _What is going on between us?_ Lyra had asked. Whatever it was, he didn’t want to disturb it. If life was fleeting, if things changed, he wanted to cement this moment in his memory, this keen, comfortable peace that flitted through his life and evaded capture like a carefree bird.

For the moment, he had her. That was all that mattered.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey all. Mars here. This fic is, in some ways, so difficult to write. It's really emotionally charged and based off some desires/thoughts/things I've had and done in my life. This update was very tiring to write, but I think I managed to convey what I was hoping to convey. Maybe I'll give the full story of what's behind this fic when I finish it haha.
> 
> No tunes in this chapter to link.
> 
> Anyway, I'm hoping to update again fairly soon. I have a jump on the next update already, believe it or not! 
> 
> Until next time,
> 
> Mars


	10. Chapter 10

**Present Day**

“You’re really out of tune.”

“Am I, though?”

“Yeah, probably like twenty cents sharp.”

“There’s no way you just know that off the top of your head.”

“Just tune it down a bit, Silver! It’s sharp! I swear it!”

Working in the shop during a slow hour, Lyra jammed her elbows onto her keyboard, a messy chord ringing through the shop. Adrianna glared at her over the rims of her glasses, her reading interrupted by the discordant jangle. Lyra huffed a sigh. “Look, please just tune down,” she said to Silver, who standing nearby with his violin, looking at her with a mystified expression. Lyra rubbed her hands over her face and groaned before adding, “It’s giving me a headache.”

“Alright, then. Give me an A,” Silver responded, and Lyra plunked the note. She watched, feeling tired and irritated, as he tuned the violin again. Truly, he wasn’t _that_ sharp. She also didn’t know the exact amount he was off by, other than it was less than thirty cents sharp but more than ten, but he didn’t need to know that.

Truth be told, she wasn’t irritated at him. There was a situation, nagging her in the back of her mind, that was steadily sinking her mood. Five days ago, Lyra had stayed at Silver’s apartment during a storm. It had also been five days without discussion of what had transpired that night. It wasn’t as though she expected Silver to mention something—she was incapable of doing so herself, wondering if the tenuous peace between them for the moment would suffer. They had spent at least a few hours a day together since, but neither of them had come nearly as close to one another.

Lyra watched the muscles in Silver’s forearms and fingers leap as he tuned, her own jaw propped in her hand as her mind wandered. Why had she done that, anyway, that night? The feeling of falling asleep, her head tucked to his chest, had been comforting. The more she was able to smell him, to touch him, to feel him, the less she feared that he was transient in her life. But there was something _more_ to that, wasn’t there? Her head and her heart were a tangled mess, and it wasn’t something she was willing to talk about.

Maybe it was easier to pretend it hadn’t happened, to tiptoe around the mine buried in the sand. There were fewer impending complications that way, she supposed. Silver finished tuning and gave her a look. “Satisfied, _princess_?” he asked.

Her eyebrows raised. “Yeah, but don’t ever call me princess again, or I will not hesitate to soak everything you love in vinegar.”

“Gross,” was all he remarked. He experimentally played an arpeggio and looked to her. “Are we going to pick up where we left off?”

“Measure 30. We’ll start there,” she responded, trying to keep the flat note from her voice. His eyes flicked at her tone, and Lyra cursed as she launched into the syncopated rhythms of “Libertango.”

That night, Silver stayed for dinner, and Lyra began to walk him home. The streetlights were just beginning to turn on as they walked. “So, remind me, what are you working the next couple of days?” Lyra asked.

“I work from 6 pm to 2 am tomorrow and the day after, then I’m working from 11 to 5 on Friday, and I have the weekend off,” he explained. He’d come from work today, still wearing the white shirt with the sleeves rolled up.

Lyra felt her mouth quirk. “You have the whole weekend off? I thought you only worked a regular amount of hours so far this week.”

“There’s some high water damage at work that Proton can’t ignore anymore,” he told her. “We’re closing over the weekend so that some work can get done without customers around.”

She grinned. “Nice.” She glanced at him. “Will you take a day trip with me somewhere, one of those days?”

He paused and looked at her. His expression was difficult to decipher. “You sure about that? You seem kind of annoyed with me lately.”

“I’m not annoyed with you,” she responded. _He definitely notices I’m acting off. Shit,_ she thought. Lyra smoothed her hair, combed into two low pigtails, and shrugged. “Don’t worry about me. I’m sorry if I’m acting funny, okay?”

He scrutinized her, folding his arms across his chest. “It’s alright,” he told her. He kept walking. “So, what were you thinking about?”

“I don’t know, what do you recommend?” she asked.

“Well…” he trailed off and chuckled. “How do you feel about fishing?”

She felt her lips quirk. She sidestepped a large group of French tourists, too busy blindly taking selfies and jabbering amongst themselves to notice they bowled over Lyra. “Fishing? Where?”

“Burano,” he told her. “It’s like a €10 water bus ride there. There’s a pier there I go fish off of a few times every summer. It’s quiet.”

Lyra wracked her brain. Why did Burano seem like such a familiar name? After a moment, she hedged, “Is that…the island with all the colorful buildings? And…weaving?”

“Lace,” he corrected, “but yeah. It can be a real tourist trap if you don’t know what the hell you’re doing, though.”

She pushed her hands in her pocket and smiled. “I’ve never been fishing in my life,” she told him, half-laughing.

Silver rolled his eyes, but it seemed good-natured. “What a city slicker.”

“You live in a city!” she scolded him.

“Yeah, but I’ve lived in _several_ cities. I’m a _cities_ slicker,” he told her, the grin that spread over his features bordering on shit-eating.

Lyra scoffed. “You’re the worst.”

Upon reaching the halfway point, they hesitated. The past few days, whenever they met, it was a quick “see you tomorrow!” before one of them took off, but Lyra knew her edge was still there. She saw it in Silver’s face, that he wanted to address it, but instead he reached out and ruffled her hair from the top. “I’ll stop by before work tomorrow. Try to stop frowning before then. Your face will get stuck that way and then you’ll be ugly like me.”

“I’m _not_ frowning,” she responded, swatting his hand away, but she knew that her face was more than a little rumpled. Lyra made herself shoot him finger guns, snapping at him. “And you’re not ugly!” she called after him as he walked away.

He glanced over his shoulder and chuckled. “Your taste is shit,” he reminded her and continued walking.

Lyra watched him walk away from her, his figure receding as he crossed the bridge over a canal. Crowds of tourists ebbed and flowed around her; the temperate night had invited this tide of people into the streets. She sighed and began to head toward home.

At the apartment, Adrianna was drooping over the couch, her husband rubbing her feet gently. She tried to catch Lyra’s eye as she moved through the apartment. “Can’t talk, laundry to do!” she said in a singsong voice. Lyra didn’t actually need to do laundry, as she had plenty of clothes that were still clean, but something told her Adrianna wanted to talk about what was going on with Silver.

As she tossed t-shirts and shorts into the washing machine, she could almost hear Adrianna scolding her for being short with him in such a perceptible way. “You were mad at him for acting like that, so you probably shouldn’t,” Lyra imagined she would say, shaking a finger at her as though she was a dog that needed scolding.

Chuckling to herself at the thought, she leaned against the washing machine for a few seconds before her phone buzzed in her pocket. She looked down to see her mother’s name flash on the caller ID. “Oh, shit,” she muttered to herself, realizing it had been several days since they’d last spoken.

“Hi, Mom,” she said, lapsing into English for the first time in what felt like days, as she wandered to her room. “Sorry for not calling again.”

“Could you at least text me once in a while?” Norma retorted on the other end. Lyra could hear snippets of a slow Michael Brecker piece on the other end. “I’m beginning to think you’re going to abandon me and live in Venice forever.”

“No, I’m going to abandon you and go to college after I come back from Venice,” Lyra retorted. She gazed out the window, at the soft orange light of the streetlamps cut through the heavy gray of dusk.

Norma scoffed. “Don’t remind me, you horrid child. I already stocked up on tissues and bourbon, but I’ve unfortunately started drinking that bourbon already.”

They chatted for a bit. Norma was busy preparing for an incoming traveling exhibit of ancient Egyptian art, and one of the cats had decided to start sleeping under Lyra’s covers and sheets during the day. On top of that, Norma’s husband was away for two weeks for work. “He calls every night and says he wishes I would see Toronto with him, but with this exhibit coming in, I won’t be able to as much as leave this half of city for the next three weeks without my boss bristling,” Norma said.

“That’s lame,” Lyra responded. “I’m feeling that, though. I’ve barely left Cannaregio in weeks, so I’m going out to Burano this weekend.”

“The fishing island?” Norma responded, half-laughing.

“Yeah, Silver and I are headed out there Saturday or Sunday,” she said, opening her windows a little wider to allow the cool, salty breeze to waft through.

Norma was silent for a moment, and Lyra had the distinct feeling that what she was avoiding with Adrianna was about to come up with her mother. “Is that so?” she commented, her tone blithe.

“Um, yes?” Lyra responded.

“See, Adrianna and I have been talking,” Norma said, and Lyra mouthed “ _Ah, fuck”_ to no one in particular.

Lyra tried to salvage the conversation. “How nice! I’m glad to know you two talk frequently—”

“Is there something going on between you and Silver?” she said, cutting across Lyra’s feeble attempt at sidetracking her.

Lyra sighed. If Adrianna weren’t a heavily pregnant woman, she would be tempted to pick a fight with her. “I don’t know. What did _my dear sweet_ aunt tell you?”

“Sounds like you two were spending a lot of time together, then you didn’t come home one night, and now you’ve been acting strangely since,” Norma commented. “I surely hope that you used protection—”

“MOM.” Lyra groaned. “There was high water and I couldn’t get back to the apartment safely. So I stayed with Silver. And…nothing happened,” she said. The conviction in her voice flooded out as she responded with that. “What I mean is, it’s not like that. I just slept on his couch.”

It was a half-truth. She had fallen asleep curled into him, inhaling his scent and listening to his heart. Lyra woke to bright, tawny sun in her eyes, alone. Although she had been alone, she’d been wrapped carefully in the throw blanket, her head supported by a dense, soft pillow instead of Silver’s body. Come morning, with tea and toasted bread, it was as though it hadn’t happened all. Neither had mentioned it; for a while she almost wondered if she had dreamed the intense exchange between them.

She sighed and rubbed at her face. “I slept…on him, more like it. We didn’t do anything. We haven’t talked about it, and it’s frustrating me.”

Norma made a small _hmm_ on the other end. “I see.”

“We’ve barely just started talking and being friends again, and I don’t know why these things keep happening. I just feel like…I have to touch him, or else he’ll disappear. If I’m not actively looking at him and feeling him, I sometimes worry I won’t look at him or feel him again. And he has these really messy feelings about the fact that we reconnected, and…it’s kind of rough,” Lyra said, the words coming out in a cascade. She cursed herself for divulging in such detail that she was feeling like some sort of disastrous tangle of emotion. “I’m not annoyed with him as much as I’m annoyed with this situation, because I can’t figure out where it’s going.”

“Why do you need to know where it’s going?” Norma responded. Her tone was bordering on flat. “We never know where things are going anyway. When I first met your father, I didn’t think I’d marry him, or have a daughter with him, or divorce him.”

“Are you saying Silver is my future ex-husband?” Lyra joked.

“I’d rather you not have an ex-husband, but who’s to say?” Norma responded. The words “who’s to say?” jolted Lyra unceremoniously to that intimate moment, her head on his chest, his hand at her head. Norma continued, “Are you afraid that it’s becoming romantic?”

Somehow, the word “romantic” being used for her and Silver, as opposed to a flirtatious innuendo, staggered Lyra. When someone made jokes, it was hard to take the idea seriously. They weren’t feeling anything like that, and obviously they were just _reading into_ the situation. The direct usage of the word “romantic” forced Lyra to confront the possibility that they were perhaps drawn to one another. _Is…is that what this is? Is it turning romantic between us?_ Lyra thought, her stomach clenching. “I…don’t know,” Lyra responded.

Norma sighed. “No need to make things uncomfortable. Let them happen organically if they’re going to happen.”

The conversation turned back to normal, to Lyra talking about progress with pieces she was practicing for university and the duets she and Silver were working on, but her stomach was twisting. She had to get this under control before she and Silver spent a day alone in Burano, or she was afraid their friendship would suffer for it.

* * *

 

**Six Years Ago**

“Why are we doing this?”

“Doing what?”

“Just…sitting here, I guess,” Silver said. It was a late spring day, and though the air and sunshine were warm, the river that Silver sat in front of was icy with snowmelt, something he’d discovered by dipping his toes in it.

Giovanni levelled a look at him. “It’s _fishing._ Not _sitting here_.”

Silver repressed the urge to sigh. They had left the city for a few days, getting away from the smog and the slog of traffic, to sit in front of some river for upwards of eight hours a day in near silence in an act he called “fishing.” Not that they had seen a single fish—Giovanni had reeled in more than his share of pond scum, and Silver had caught the world’s oldest, moldiest boot.

Unable to curb himself in time, he snidely said, “Well, is it really fishing if we’ve caught nothing but trash?”

He immediately feared retribution, but much to his surprise, Giovanni’s mouth quirked. Leaving the city for a few days seemed to have lightened his mood, easing the lines around his mouth. “I don’t know that I would argue with that.”

“How many worms have we drowned now?” Silver responded.

“Oh, dozens,” Giovanni added. He straightened his back and rolled his shoulders. “It’s time to be quiet. The fish will hear us.”

“Sure they will,” Silver mumbled, earning a light cuff from his father, but it seemed good-natured.

Some hours passed in the warm sun. The trees around the river swayed in the breeze. Giovanni hooked a fish on his line, but it slipped away before he could reel it in. Silver didn’t get as much as a bite. Once again, he glanced at his father. “You didn’t really answer my question,” he said, knowing he was overstepping. “Why did we come out here to fish?”

“Solitude,” was Giovanni’s response. He reeled in the line and checked the bait; he had half of an earthworm left on the line, grotesquely dangling there. He recast the line and landed it in the middle of the river, in a patch of brilliantly sunlit water. “Everything is so loud.”

“I’m just practicing my instrument—”

“Gianni. I mean the city. The life we live. Your friend and her mother. It’s all loud. It doesn’t allow for us to think and reflect upon ourselves,” Giovanni said. Silver’s brow furrowed as his father further explained, “With fishing, you may not catch any fish. But you’re able to reflect on your life and make decisions without a thousand other things to distract you.”

Silver simply nodded. Giovanni glanced across at him. “Have you come to any conclusions?”

 _The sun is hot, I’m redheaded, and I’m about to have a bad sunburn and a dozen new freckles,_ Silver thought, but he shook his head. “No. Not yet. Have you?”

Something flashed in his eyes. “There are things I want to prove when we return home, I believe.” Giovanni did not elaborate further, for there was a tug on his line. “Oh, that may actually be a fish. Hold the thought.”

Silver watched his father grappling with the fish on the line. Despite his Giovanni’s seemingly good mood, something about his words was unsettling. _There are things I want to prove when we return home._ Like what? What was a great mystery that needed solving? He had the feeling something was up, but he started reeling his own line in, watching his father cautiously.

As he reeled the line in, Giovanni added, “Like I said, Gianni. The simplicity of a man fishing will help him determine how to move ahead in his life.”

After a pause that was too long, Silver swallowed and nodded. “Yes, father,” Silver responded, uneasily.

* * *

**Present Day**

It was half-past six on a Friday. Lyra was exhausted; she’d scarcely slept. The thick heat had returned, this time unaccompanied by rain, and in those temperatures it had been difficult to sleep. With some sleepiness, she found herself playing the Prelude again, her fingers tracing through its familiar patterns. Silver was to come by sometime in the next half an hour or so. He wasn’t going to stay for long; they both intended to get up and leave for Burano quite early, but he said he had something to “drop off.”

“Wanna bet it’s a pastry?” she muttered.

The student covering the counter, Serena, glanced her way. “What was that?” she asked. Her Italian was spoken with a French purr.

Realizing she’d said it aloud, Lyra waved her hand dismissively. “Sorry. Thinking aloud.”

Serena’s dark eyes flicked to her, bemused. “I see.” She returned to reading a textbook; if Lyra remembered correctly, the older girl was attending college for fashion design. “The song you are playing is pretty,” she added.

“Thank you,” Lyra said, feeling the corners of her lips turn upward.

Not long after this exchange, Silver came into the shop. His presence, like it had since her conversation with her mutter, made her heart skip every third beat or so. He looked equally as tired, but he seemed to be in good spirits. “Lyra, I found my first thumbtack at work today,” he said, sliding onto the bench next to her. “Went right through the sole of my shoe. I should…probably get a tetanus booster.”

“I thought that was done when you stepped on rusty nails, not thumbtacks,” Lyra responded, continuing to play the Prelude.

He glanced at her. “This is Proton we’re talking about.”

Lyra shrugged. “I’ve never met him, so I have to go by the stories you tell. Are you implying he poisoned his thumbtacks with tetanus? Sounds like a biohazard.”

He noticeably blanched. “I never thought about that. But I bet you he would if he could. I’m gonna get that booster next week.”

“As you should,” Lyra said, her lips quirking into a smile.

He sat for a while and watched her play. As she suspected, he slid a strawberry pastry, wrapped in wax paper, across the console of her keyboard. “They were giving these away at work again.”

“I’m sure they were,” she responded. She hit a chord with an air of finality to it and angled herself toward Silver. “So, Burano tomorrow?”

“Yeah. There’s a water bus that leaves every hour on the hour,” he told her.

She smiled. “Sounds good.” Being this close to him, she could count the freckles across his nose, see the dark, charcoal flecks in his otherwise light eyes. “How about we get on the water bus around nine tomorrow? I’m not exactly raring to go early.”

He gave a nod. “It’s supposed to be pretty hot.”

“I don’t mind. Worse comes to worst, I can just sunbathe, you know?” she responded.

“Says you. I crisp up pretty fucking fast in the sun. Redhead and all,” he told her.

They discussed their plan for a while longer before Silver hopped off the bench. “I need to do laundry tonight and buy groceries, so I need to head out,” he told her. “I’ll come by here around 8:30. I know where we have to go for the water bus.”

“Cool. I’ll see you then,” she said. After he left, she let out a long breath and pushed her hand through her hair. _Oh God. I’m going to be away from Cannaregio all day with him tomorrow. And I haven’t come to terms with the idea that…_ she refused to finish the thought. She drooped at her keyboard and sprawled over it, gazing at the pastry, wrapped in wax paper.

Silver liked chocolate. There were plenty of chocolate pastries in Italy; why didn’t ever grab anything for himself like that? Panic set in. _Is this some kind of flirtation_ _?_ Lyra thought, her eyes growing huge. They’d just barely started interacting again; how could they be flirting and touching and talking like this already?

What was so different now from then, anyway? When they were kids and…she was just as confused about her feelings.

She sighed and rubbed at her face. Lyra powered off the keyboard and headed upstairs, her eyes huge. In the kitchen, she found Adrianna sitting at the table, scrolling through a website on her tablet. “Somehow, diapers in bulk are no better of a deal than buying a ton in store,” she said to Lyra as she unwrapped the pastry. “My husband and I aren’t doing poorly for ourselves by any stretch, but diapers for these babies are going to break the bank, I fear.”

“Have you considered cloth? They’re sustainable and it’s probably cheaper than buying a ton of them.” Lyra ask as she took a bite of it. It was perfectly flaky and sweet. Damned Silver, anyway, knowing almost exactly perfectly what she would want.

“We are going to try them around the house, but my friend who just had her third recommended not using them in public. They’re…messy,” she said, her nose wrinkling. She looked up at Lyra. “Another pastry from the boy, huh?”

“Yep,” she said, her mouth full.

 She sat the table as Adrianna set her tablet aside and gazed at her niece. “You seem flustered.”

“I think tomorrow will be fun, but it’ll be tough,” she said. “I’m sort of afraid of maybe…having feelings. It seems really fast.”

“You may have had feelings when you were younger that are coming back now. You also have been spending large amounts of time with him,” she said. “We’re going to turn the air conditioning on tonight. We all need to sleep. If you’re going to spend the day with someone you’re confused about, you probably don’t want to be tired and grouchy, right?”

“Right,” Lyra responded.

Adrianna gave her a smile. “It’ll be fine. I suspect tomorrow will help you decide on some things.”

Lyra sighed and took another bite of pastry. “I hope so.”

“Just relax. Let things happen organically. The more you panic about things, the more uncomfortable you both will be,” Adrianna responded. She reached over and smoothed Lyra’s hair from her face. “Just enjoy yourself. Life moves too quickly to waste energy worrying about this.”

Only half-listening, Lyra nodded. “If…you say so.”

* * *

**Present Day**

There was still something off with Lyra, something that Silver couldn’t put his finger on.

They had just gotten on the water bus, a long, flattened white boat, after a rather quiet walk to the dock. She had greeted him with her usual enthusiasm and grinned at his jokes, but she wasn’t as chatty as usual. Now, bobbing on the water on a boat that was still relatively devoid of other passengers, Silver had to wonder what was on her mind.

She was dressed typically, in denim shorts and a red t-shirt. For the day ahead, Lyra carried a yellow backpack with her and wore a straw hat over her hair, tied into low pigtails. Round-rimmed sunglasses hung from the collar of her shirt. Yet, she leaned over the railing of the water bus, her expression uncustomary neutral. “You good?” he asked her.

She startled. He settled in next to her, gazing across the Grand Canal at one of the many basilicas, already swarmed with tourists. Lyra eased and chuckled. “Ha. Yup!” she responded, smiling at him. “Might still be super tired after yesterday. Couldn’t sleep in that heat overnight and Adrianna didn’t turn on the air conditioning again until last night.”

“Yeah, it’s been pretty hot. Climate change, huh?” he joked. She simply smiled at him.

What was on her mind, exactly?

The water bus took off minutes later, lurching out into the canal. Silver gripped the railing and watched them move slowly through the water, passing by gondolas and other smaller boats. Lyra whistled. “Look at all the boats,” she said as they moved. “Like right in the middle of the city. That’s wild.”

“Canals are wild?” Silver clarified.

“For sure,” she responded, with a grin. “There’s just a bunch of water right in the middle of your city. Isn’t that super weird to you?”

He raised his eyebrows. “I’m kind of used to it.”

She laughed. “Lame. You’re in the gimmickiest city on the planet, and you’re ‘kinda used to it,’” she said, flipping into English.

“Gimmickiest is a word?” He responded in kind.

“No idea,” she answered.

They chatted about shallow, silly things, mostly in English, as they cruised across the water. Her hair waved about in the breeze, and he thought about how pleasant it had smelled when her head had been on his chest. Silver wondered if it smelled as good now.

Eventually, they were free of the city limits and out on open water, heading toward a distant island. He pointed it out to Lyra. “Burano,” he told her, back in Italian. “That’s it out that way. Proton has a friend out here named Arciere who owns a house and a pier on Burano.”

“Arciere? Like…Archer? Like bow and arrow?” she responded.

“Yeah,” he responded. After a moment, he added, “I think he may have worked with Giovanni at one point, too, but more as an equal than an underling. I never met him, and I have to go on Proton’s word that he knew my father.”

Lyra looked at him, curious. He continued, “So, yeah. Dude’s just a rich guy who made his money in a shitty way who goes fishing out in the sea a lot. I keep some fishing rods at his place and walk down to his dock. We’re not friends, but we have an understanding.”

“It’s weird that you know two people from your dad’s line of work, though. Especially if he seems to have tried to keep it from you,” she answered.

“Yeah, no kidding,” he muttered. He watched the choppy waves, a dark green that didn’t even seem to reflect the sky. “If you want to do some sightseeing today, we can do that, too. I just figured it’d be something different to do.”

“Fishing?” she clarified. Silver nodded. “I’m excited to give it a shot. But what do you even catch this close to a city?”

“Bottom-feeders,” he retorted flatly, unable to keep a dry, crooked smile from crossing his face. “We’re throwing back anything we catch. Unless there’s a cat around. You let the cat take your fish or you’ll be cursed for seven years.”

She laughed at that. Her shoulder bumped into his arm as she drew a little closer; some of the earlier tension seemed to have relaxed. “I wouldn’t want to incur their wrath,” she said, hunching her shoulders and wriggling her fingers in a manner that was meant to be spooky.

Once at Burano, Lyra’s eyes were wide and bright. “It’s like a postcard,” she whispered as they moved to get off the boat. Each building was eye-wateringly bright, painted in bright rainbow of colors, with clear canals cutting through town. Her eyes flashed up to him, filled with delight. “This is such a cool place!” she said, following him as the moved off the boat in an obvious crowd of tourists.

He led her through the winding streets of the town, virtually every one of them following the route of the waterways. She bounced along after him, sometimes resting a hand on his arm. “So I don’t get lost,” she told him when Silver gave her a questioning look. He smiled, despite himself, and led her up toward the rockier part of the island.

As they walked uphill, she pointed out various houses and shops. “I wanna live there,” she said, pointing out a bright reddish building with white shutters. “Looks cute.”

“I think that’s a hostel,” he responded, “so you’d have to kick out everyone living there.”

“Tough for them,” she quipped.

Finally, they reached Archer’s—now that Lyra drew the comparison, he couldn’t not hear it in his head—place, up where the buildings were increasingly larger and wider. His house was three stories and bright blue, almost the same shade as the sky, with broad French doors painted white out front. “He knows I’m coming, but I’m just gonna go up and check in with him,” he told her. “You don’t have to come with.”

Lyra followed him right up to the house, where he knocked on the door. He waited thirty to forty seconds; the sounds of footsteps echoing inside leading up to the door were the only thing that could be heard from inside. Arciere—Archer—opened the door and gazed out, his eyebrow raised. He was dressed as he often was, in a white shirt and slacks over a black shirt. His slacks were cuffed up, showing off black sandals. A pair of boating shoes dangled from his grasp. “Gianni,” he greeted, his voice low and cool. “What is the meaning of this visit? I’m about to set out and don’t like to be interrupted.”

Silver felt his hackles raise. He never truly liked Arciere. While Proton had given him some sense of purpose when they reconnected, Giovanni’s former associate was unreadable and often condescending. While he was accommodating and helpful when needed, he rarely expressed any fondness or respect for Silver. “I was going to come fishing today. We had talked about this.”

“Certainly, but you didn’t need to come up here to tell me that,” Arciere’s eyes flicked past him to Lyra. “Who is this?”

Before Lyra could respond, Silver said, “She’s an old friend who’s visiting the city for the summer. I just wanted to make sure you knew we were here and didn’t have any surprises.”

“Fair enough. You know where to get the equipment. I left bait in the shed as well.” He shut the door, and Silver heard the noticeable turn of a lock.

He turned to Lyra, whose eyes were wide. She opened her mouth, as if to comment, but shut it again and shook her head. Silver walked around the side of the house to the backyard, terraced and funneling down to a set of stairs that led to the pier below. He detoured toward a small white shed, almost attached to the back of the house. He opened it and grabbed “It’s really quiet down here. Tourists don’t come any closer than half a kilometer,” he told her.

“Something tells me ‘Archer’ doesn’t appreciate company,” Lyra responded.

“Oh, he and Proton get on like a house on fire, but Archer views me as a nuisance,” Silver responded. He handed Lyra the tacklebox and the white plastic container of bait he found inside the door. “Hold onto those. I can’t find the poles I like.”

“What kind of bait is this?” she asked curiously as he dug through piles of lifejackets and boating shoes.

“Probably cut bait,” he said. “Arciere catches a lot of fish out of sea and cuts up extra fish to use as bait.”

Lyra was silent a moment before her voice, oddly tinny through the shed, said, “Well, yuck.”

“Worms aren’t great at sea unless you dig up your own sea worms. I learned that the hard way when I bought some off a local fisherman last summer. That’s about eight euros I never got back,” he told her.

“He charged you eight euros for worms?” she said, laughter shaking her voice. “Dude, how did you think that was a good deal?”

He rolled his eyes. He found the two poles he liked best, emerged with them, and set off toward the stairway leading down to the dock. “Don’t judge me. You’ve never even fished.”

Lyra followed him down the steep stairwell. The stairs were a rough enough texture that the misty, damp air hadn’t slicked them. “These are really steep!” Lyra commented over the roar of the ocean. “What happens when Archer’s too old to walk up and down these?”

“Uhh…sucks to suck?” Silver responded.

He felt her glare burn into the back of his head, but he chuckled, in spite of himself. At the bottom of the stairs, they came to a long wooden pier. The salty scent of the air cleared Silver’s head almost immediately; the faint scent of mold that always permeated Venice wasn’t present here—the wind and ocean and sky were in harmony. Arciere’s sailboat was docked on one side; the other was empty, where another sailboat once sat. He turned to see Lyra pushing her sunglasses onto her face with her free hand, grinning at the sight. “It’s beautiful here,” she said, trotting to catch up to him as he walked out.

“Don’t run on the pier—” he started to tell her, but it was too late. Her feet slipped on the wet surface and she fell. It was a straight drop onto her bottom. Silver sighed and turned. “Are you alright?” he asked her.

She rubbed at her neck in embarrassment. “Yeah. I don’t know why it didn’t occur to me that the pier would be…wet. And watery.”

“Water’s wet, you idiot,” he told her, but not without affection. He held a hand out to her and helped her back onto her feet. “Glad to see you didn’t toss the bait everywhere,” he added, noting she hadn’t let go of his hand yet.

She shrugged. “Wouldn’t dream of tossing the fish chunks everywhere.”

He walked along the pier with her toward the end, her hand firmly gripping his. Her gaze was directed downward, tipped toward the pier as they moved along it. “I promise you won’t slip off the pier if you walk normally,” he told her.

“Right, but if I’m going down, you better come with me. I can’t walk through Burano alone all soaked,” she told him.

He scowled. Of _course_ that was her plan. At the end of the pier, he pulled his hand free of hers and set the poles on the pier. He took the tacklebox from her and flipped it open, searching for hooks. Some were huge, as long as his thumb, and covered in barbs. He ignored those and searched for smaller ones. “We’ll probably catch like…gobies and smelt and bonitos here. Sometimes after high water you can find pipefish.”

“Don’t know what any of that means, but I’m assuming they’re little fish friends.” Lyra sat at the edge of the pier. “Gotta ask you so I can get in the right mindset, but what’s the draw of fishing for you?”

Silver’s mind flashed back to Giovanni, dragging him fishing in the states as a young teenager. _With fishing, you may not catch any fish. But you’re able to reflect on your life and make decisions without a thousand other things to distract you,_ his father had said. He brushed those words aside and sought the meaning he’d personally assigned to fishing. “It’s just a really quiet, relaxing thing to do.” After a moment, he added, “I wanted to share this spot with you, too. There are ways to go to any basilica, to any festival, but this spot is my favorite.”

He looked up to see that her cheeks had flamed with color. She turned away, chuckling, rubbing her hand across her mouth to hide the little smile that touched her lips. “Well, I already like it, so…thank you for sharing this place with me,” she said.

Silver found the hooks he was looking for and set about securing them to the lines. Once tied, he handed one to Lyra and grabbed another for himself. “Alright, hand me the fish chunks. I’m gonna show you how to bait your line.”

A while later, with their lines cast into the water, they sat in companionable silence. The awkwardness from earlier was still somewhat present; Silver felt it rolling off of her from time to time. But then it would disappear, and she’d be acting like her usual self. She pulled out her phone and scooted closer to him. “Take a picture with me,” she said.

“I’m fishing?” he reminded her.

She looked back at him. “Humor me.” She leaned in closer to him, threw up a peace sign, and snapped the picture.

He rolled his eyes and leaned in for the next one, giving the camera a tepid half-smile. She took off her hat and shoved it on his head before snapping another.

Silver snagged her phone from her. “That’s not my angle.” He snagged her sunglasses as well, wrapped an arm around her shoulder, and took a picture before she could as much as protest. He then gave it back, pushed her sunglasses back on her face, but kept the hat on his head. “I see why you wear this. I feel so shaded and cool right now.”

She blinked at him, still shocked by the whirlwind of activity. “Uh…yeah. Yup. Definitely suits you and your monochrome fashion sense.”

“Thanks,” he said.

“Walk, walk, fashion baby,” she muttered under her breath, her lips twitching as she fought a smile.

They sat for an hour without as much as a nibble. But in that time, they chatted a lot. Lyra broke out cans of soda she’d been carrying in a small cooler bag in her backpack, which they cracked open. “There’s cola and lemon,” she told him. He had no preference and had taken the cola, leaving her with lemon.

They were talking about cartoons they had watched growing up, about superheroes and talking animals and unnecessary love triangles, when Silver noticed Lyra sipping his cola. He paused mid-sentence before clearing his throat. “Lyra. That’s mine.”

She glanced at the can, at Silver, and then sighed. “Oh shit. Yeah, you took that one, didn’t you? I think I keep sipping out of it, because I’ve definitely had more than just this one.”

“I did,” he said, slowly. He laughed. “You used to do that to me all the time when were kids. I’d pick a different soda than you and you’d sneak drinks. Don’t be cute with me now.”

“I swear it was an accident,” she said, throwing her hands up. “I just…forgot which one was mine.”

He grabbed her lemon soda and took a swig before setting it back. “There, we’re even.”

“Cool, now I get your germs, too,” she said, rubbing her hand across her mouth. The motion seemed shy in a way most uncharacteristic for her. After a moment, she quietly said, “I think when I was in school, if you drank someone else’s drink, they’d joke it was like kissing someone else to drink their milk or juice or whatever.”

Silver froze. When he regained some control of his movement, he said, “Is that so?”

She nodded and half-laughed. “Yeah. It was just some dumb thing. Ethan told me Kris and I had to get married because I accidentally drank out of her apple juice in third grade. I told him if he loved Kris so much, he should marry her. Turns out, he doesn’t like women at all, you know?” she said, her mouth quirking. “Anyway, it’s all silly shit. Just reminded me of that.”

“Yeah.” He gazed out at sea. His pole was still, the red buoy on it still bobbing along in the water. Lyra’s, a meter or two closer to the pier, also moved with the slosh of the waves. He was acutely aware of how close she was, her hand gripping the edge of the pier mere inches away from his. An absurd desire overcame him, like it had the other night, and he inched closer to her until their arms and shoulders brushed. He leaned back, his arm supporting himself and resting behind Lyra at a comfortable angle. “Definitely just silly shit. No merit to it at all.”

“Definitely not,” she responded, adjusting so her shoulder and side were pressed closer to his. “Only eight-year-old children would believe that.”

They sat quietly. Lyra took of her sunglasses, peering at him with her incomprehensibly dark, doelike eyes, and he wondered what she was thinking. She began to open her mouth, to ask him something, when an utterly _infuriating_ and all-too-familiar voice cut across the din.

“Oy, Gianni! Arciere said you’d be down here, but I never believed you’d bring a _girl._ ”

Hackles raised, Silver slowly turned, a white-hot rage rising in him, as Proton stepped off the stairs at the foot of the dock, waving at him. He separated himself from Lyra and set her hat back on her head before begrudgingly, tiredly, angrily, retorting, “ _Ciao,_ Proton.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey y'all! Happy 10th chapter! I'm super excited to have written this much now! I hope y'all are enjoying reading this the way I've been enjoying writing it.
> 
> I have an outline and a good start on the 11th chapter, which I hope will be up soon! :D 
> 
> Introducing Serena and Archer (Arciere) this chapter as well, hoping to broaden the cast of minor characters.
> 
> Please don't be afraid to comment on this, even if you don't feel like you have anything particularly thoughtful to say. I'm realizing no one has commented on it on this site for several chapters. Regardless, I appreciate all of your readership and support! 
> 
> Also music this chapter:
> 
> The Michael Brecker piece I was thinking of was Midnight Voyage: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=2LhQO6_TuiQ


	11. Chapter 11

**Present Day**

What had been a soft, sweet moment with Silver had dissolved the minute that Proton appeared. With Silver’s terse “ _Ciao,_ Proton,” Lyra had to turn and look at the man she’d heard so much about but otherwise could guess little of.

Her first thought was there was no way the man hadn’t been a criminal. He walked with a strange gait that was halfway between confident and predatory. His clothes were too swanky, his shirt unbuttoned too far, his teal hair too perfectly ruffled. As he grew closer, she noticed his smile didn’t quite reach his eyes. Proton, overall, gave her an impression of someone who was far too pleased with himself. “Wow, he’s certainly an odd…person,” she whispered across to Silver.

“No shit?” he hissed back. His cheeks were aflame with rage, his brow stormy with rage.

Lyra was less than impressed with this man, and for _interrupting_ their afternoon, in which she was finally fully enjoying herself, she already felt nothing but contempt for this human being. _He does look like someone who’d throw out thumbtacks like caltrops. I’m gonna make him regret it if he doesn’t leave soon,_ she decided.

Proton came up by them, standing no more than a few feet from the end of the pier. Lyra noticed, with a flicker of glee, that his shoes were a silver and black version of saddle shoes. He wore all black like Silver, but the effect on him made him seem greasy. He directed his gaze to her; his eyes were almost as light as Silver’s but were a halfway between green and blue that made her uneasy. “So, you’re the unlucky lady to be hanging out with Gianni here?” He crouched, making himself closer to her eye level. “I would feel bad for you, but I’m sure it’s the second best thing to happen to him in the past two years.”

His tone made her bristle. She decided to air on the side of saccharine with a helping of absurd. “What’s the first?” Lyra challenged, her tone almost coy. “Meeting you?”

He pressed a hand to his chest. “Oh, of course. But he knew of me long before that, and in that sense he is lucky.”

Silver cleared his throat at them. “I am right here. In ear shot.”

“Oh, of course, only the most _flattering_ things will be said.” He clapped Silver on the shoulder hard, but he didn’t remove his gaze from Lyra. “For example, I can’t believe you’re talking to someone so easy on the eyes.”

“I’m seventeen,” she said, forcing a shark’s smile. “Might wanna keep it PG.”

He regarded her, his eyes flickering at her words that were ever so slightly barbed, before turning to Silver. “So, you take a girl fishing. That’s a horrible date idea.”

“We were having fun until you showed up,” Lyra remarked. Silver’s eyes darted across to her, flashing with amusement.

Proton slid between them, the vinyl-like texture of his pants chafing Lyra’s leg. He leaned forward, blocking her view of Silver. “So, tell me about yourself. What has Silver so hooked on you? He’s so happy at work lately.”

“My name is Lyra, I’m a Leo, and I love the vacuum of space,” she responded

Proton propped his jaw in his hand and squinted at her. “Weird, but I can work with that. I’m a Scorpio myself,” he responded. “The most irresistible sign.”

“Oh wow,” was all Lyra responded with. _He is way too old for this shit,_ she decided, wondering if there was a polite way to punt him into the ocean.

“I have a more substantial answer than yours, though,” Proton continued. His shoes swung mere inches over the surf. “I own a restaurant and a bar, and I’m hoping to buy a hotel,” he said, stretching his arms.

Lyra dodged him, fearing where his limbs may go, and laughed dryly. “Sounds like a game of Monopoly. And let me tell you, I sure hate Monopoly.”

Proton scoffed and directed his gaze to Silver. “Please tell Lyra how impressive my holdings are.”

Dismissively, Silver responded, “Yup, _very_ impressive and all. Anyway, it was great to see you Proton. I’ll see you at work on Monday. Tell Arciere I said hi,” Silver said, his tone anything but civil. “Or don’t. Really, I invite you to do anything else. Just leave, please.”

“Oh no, I must _assess_ this situation.” He flung his arms out and pulled both Silver and Lyra into a strange, dual embrace. Lyra wanted nothing more than the strange man’s arm to be anywhere but _around_ her neck. It washed her in smell of a putrid cologne. She caught Silver’s gaze, both bewildered and tart, for a split second before Proton released Silver, but not Lyra.

She pushed his arm away and scooted several inches away from him. “Oh yes, I feel you’ve assessed this situation _quite well_. Congratulations. You’re obviously brilliant and socially gifted. It was such a _joy_ to meet you.”

He scooted closer to her. “Such a feisty thing. What a challenge you would be. I’m sure Silver doesn’t know how to handle you.”

“Wow, remember how I said I’m seventeen? That’s a good fact to keep in mind,” Lyra said, shirking away from him. “Like a _very_ good fact to keep in mind.”

Silver loudly cleared his throat. “Hey, Proton, it might be a good idea to fucking stop.”

He reached out and tangled his fingers in one of Lyra’s pigtails, making her eyes grow wide. His face was too close. His breath was on her ear. Her entire body recoiled when he chuckled low, huff “We’re just getting warmed up,” he said, his voice lethally soft.

What happened next was such a blur that Lyra wasn’t sure of what happened. There was a flash of movement, an “oh shit”, and then neither Proton nor Silver were sitting on the pier, nor was there unwanted touching going on. A pair of loud splashes followed. She gazed down, shocked, as Silver surfaced, hair hanging in his eyes, and Proton followed suit, sputtering. “Gianni, you _bitch,_ what the hell is wrong with you?” he snarled, treading water.

“Slippery pier. Sorry. Thought you’d rescue your favorite employee,” was all he said. Something in his inflection sounded wrong to Lyra. “I’m sure you want to go dry off now.”

“You’re not wrong,” Proton swam to the ladder, clambered up. He dipped his head to Lyra. “It’s a shame his clumsiness ruined the mood. I will see you at work on Monday, Gianni.” He then walked away, his shiny shoes squeaking shrilly as he walked up the dock. Silver, now clinging to the ladder, watched him go.

Lyra turned to him, bewildered. “What the hell? Are you okay?” she asked, scrambling to him. “You’re soaked.”

“I would never had known that if you hadn’t pointed it out.” She noticed he was watching Proton leave rather closely, his eyes not leaving Proton’s receding figure until he was well up the cliff side. He groaned and flopped on his back on the pier.

He peered up at her with one eye open. “Are you alright? I…I didn’t really intend for you to meet him at all, so I never got to give the ‘End Proton before he starts’ talk. He never learns, especially considering he doesn’t go for women who mouth off to him like that.” The last part was said with amusement, but it was enough to make her neck prickle.

Lyra shrugged. The truth was, Proton had made her _wildly_ uncomfortable. “Quite a guy, to have given you a new lease on life and make me pray that a meteor strikes him all at once. I hope he doesn’t make it hard on you at work.”

“At this point, he’d have to make me serve in the nude or something to make my job harder,” he responded, snorting. Then, his expression softened as his eyes flicked back to her. “Well, at least he got wet, huh?” Silver suggested.

Lyra met his gaze. “I have a question about that, Silver.”

“It was a random act of God,” he said hastily.

She tapped her chin. “Remember when you said the pier’s fine if you walk normally? I only slipped earlier because I wasn’t walking.” She scooted around experimentally, finding that the fabric of her shorts caught on the wood. “Seems pretty slip-proof to me.”

“Good for you. I was just sitting in a terrible spot,” Silver insisted. He sat up and peeled off his t-shirt, as black as the rest of his wardrobe. Regarding the wet garment with a sigh, he hung it over a nearby post. “Can’t trust the right side of piers, am I right?”

 _He did it on purpose,_ she confirmed. With a sigh, she inched back to her spot, where her rod was sitting in a rod holder. “Well, whatever you say it was, I’m grateful it happened,” she told him. She reeled in her line, checked for the cut bait, and recast it.

He bounced onto his feet. “Don’t go anywhere. I have some extra clothes at Arciere’s place.” Before he went far, he said, “I’m gonna raid his fridge. What’s your soda preference?”

“Strawberry!” she called, and cursed herself as a knowing smirk passed over his features.

When he walked away, she found that her face was burning. She couldn’t believe he’d throw himself in and taken Proton with him to get him to stop. A simple shove would’ve done it, wouldn’t it have? Regardless, she had to smile. “Quite the act,” she murmured.

In the time it took for Silver to return, there wasn’t a single nibble on the line. He had a strangely giddy look on his face as he set down a quartet of glass-bottled, expensive-looking sodas and a bottle opener. “Proton totally stormed out of there. He didn’t even stop to use Arciere’s showers.” Lyra noticed his clothes were almost identical to what he was wearing before; black t-shirt and black cargos, but this time his feet were bare. It was almost as though the incident had never happened, save for the distinct dampness of his hair, hanging loose down his back and over his shoulders.

Lyra took one bottle with reddish contents and pried the lid off with the bottle opener. The aroma of strawberries wafted out of the bottle, tantalizing her. She took a long swig of its delicious contents while Silver opened an orange soda. She swallowed and wiped her hand across her mouth. “A fruit flavor?”

“I like citrus,” he told her. “A strawberry flavor is always too sweet.”

“This stuff tastes like real strawberries, though.” She held it out to him. “Try it.”

He glanced at her, his expression unreadable, and took it. He gave it a quick sip and passed it back, his face screwed up. “Yeah, it’s not _sickeningly sweet,_ but that’s still too sweet. A real berry is much better.”

She shrugged. “I gotta try.”

They were quiet for a while. Silver offered her the bottle of orange soda, from which she took a longer drought. It was quite sour, which didn’t surprise her, knowing Silver’s tastes. She gave him a nod of approval. The sun was now high in the sky, and aside from a few nibbles or seagulls coming to investigate for food scraps, a companionable silence stretched between them that Lyra was more than comfortable with.

It allowed her to think, just sitting in the sun with a fishing rod. She had made the decision earlier in the day to “go with the flow,” so to speak, and to not dig in her heels or push in a direction that felt unnatural. This decision had led to more of those quiet, soft moments between them, moments where she could almost forget about the yawning maw of a seemingly forbidden past hiding behind Silver. On top of that, she wondered more and more if he was also feeling the way she did: drawn to their old friend but struggling with apprehension and stubbornness.

At some point, Silver jolted. “Fish,” he said. His pole was bending ever so slightly as a fierce swimmer dragged the line around. “All this time, and we might finally get something.”

“ _You’re_ getting something,” she corrected, but she watched as he reeled the fish in to reveal…a silvery, narrow fish, a little over half a foot long.

He looked at it and sighed. “Tiny guy. A little smelt, I think,” he said, sitting back down and examining the wriggling fish. “You were drawn to cut bait? I feel like the cut bait is bigger than you are.”

Lyra watched as he talked to the fish, handling it with great care as he unhooked it. It wasn’t as though he was baby-talking it—no, it was as though he was talking to another person. He brushed a finger over its gill flap once it was free of the hook. Its sides were heaving. “That’s called an operculum,” he told Lyra. “It protects the vascular tissue inside.”

“Cool, but get him back in the water,” Lyra suggested. The red tissue under the flaps was showing. “I’m worried.”

“I wouldn’t kill him. I haven’t seen any cats to feed.” He crouched and dropped the fish into the water. He sat on the edge of the pier again and grabbed the container of cut bait. “You haven’t had a single nibble on your line?”

Lyra jiggled the rod experimentally and shrugged. “Not once.”

“Now you’ll hate fishing forever,” he said.

Lyra shook her head. She settled the pole in its holder and reclined. “No. I’ve had a really good day with you.”

“Even with Proton?”

She nodded. “Even then.” Lyra closed her eyes and tipped the brim of her hat over her eyes. Without any pretense, she added, “I know you dragged him off the pier, Silver. And I’m grateful for that.”

Silver was silent. The sound of waves and the wind was all Lyra heard until he responded, “He really pissed me off. I’m used to him messing with me. That’s always been our dynamic. But I really didn’t like him messing with you.”

“So he doesn’t actually want to try and seduce me?” Lyra said, her tone hopeful.

“Oh no, if you’re female and move, he’s absolutely going to take his shot,” Silver responded, earning a long, annoyed groan from Lyra. “You weren’t comfortable, and he kept pushing himself at you. I couldn’t stand it.”

Her memories flashed back to that day in the grocery store, first hearing about Silver as rescuing another girl from an uncomfortable situation. Her heart warming, she reached out blindly and brushed her fingertips against what felt like the back of his bicep. “You’re a good guy,” she told him.

Lyra felt herself dozing in the warmth of the sun, occasionally sitting up for long enough to sip her soda and ask Silver if he’d caught anything more. “Not a damned thing,” he told her each time.

An indeterminate amount of time passed, and eventually she felt Silver tap her shoulder. Half-sleepy, half-blissful, she sat up to find the long shadows of late afternoon passing over her. “Whazzit?” she mumbled, rubbing at her eyes and adjusting her sunglasses.

“Sun’s starting to set,” he said. There was a softer quality to his voice. She scooted closer to the edge and gazed out over the waves; the tips of which were beginning to take on a fiery hue. The sky itself was mostly blue, but the yellowish hue of sundown tinted the horizon. Sailboats and waterbuses glided across the waves, and seagulls fluttered about. Distantly, Lyra could see where they came from, the sestieri, no more than a faint smudge on the horizon.

Lyra smiled. “Looks like a postcard here, too.” She snapped a picture with her phone and sighed. “I’m in love with this spot. We need to come back here sometime.”

“You barely went fishing. I had to watch your line,” Silver scolded her.

“I like that you like fishing. Plus the sun is warm, and I think I’m legally a cat,” she told him.

He snorted. “Don’t say that.” He stood and brushed his clothes off. “I’m starving. How about you?”

She stood up, feeling stiff from laying on the dock. “I’m pretty hungry.” She gathered their mess, the empty bottles and two that were still full, and tucked them away in her bag. Lyra handed him both rods, which he removed the bait and hooks from.

It wasn’t long before they were walking back up the stairs and around the side of Arciere’s house. Lyra caught sight of the man in an open window, smoking. He noticed her gaze and nodded to her. She waved back. Noticing the interaction, Silver glanced up at Arciere and gave a nod before increasing his pace.

She watched Silver and was unable to keep from smiling. He was talking about food to her, about inexpensive options on the island, about cooking at home, about anything really. Lyra just matched his pace, watching the way the light danced through his hair, setting it ablaze, and over his face, casting his pale skin in golden hues. Fondness coiled through her as she watched him.

He glanced over at her. “I asked you a question.”

She felt her eyes flash wider before settling in a neutral expression. “Could you repeat it?” she said.

Silver scowled at her. “Pay attention. I was asking if you wanted cicchetti.”

It took her a moment to realize he was talking about what was essentially Venetian finger foods. “Yeah,” she responded, rubbing at her neck. “It sounds good.”

As they walked down the hill, back to the densest areas of colorful houses, Silver said, “You obviously were thinking of something very important.”

Lyra, unable to help herself, grinned. _You have no idea, Silver,_ she thought. She admitted, “It was. Now, what kind of cicchetti are we talking? If it’s fried and salty, I could go for like eight servings of it right now.”

Silver seemed unconvinced, but he nodded. Tapping his finger on his chin, he said, “There’s plenty of that. Definitely more fish than you could ever know what to do with. And wine. But you’re too young for that and I’m too broke for that.”

Part of her wanted to joke that she was unbearable while they were both sober, but her buoyant, affectionate mood didn’t allow it. “That’s alright. There’s plenty else I like,” Lyra said, her smile eminent even in her voice. She walked closer to him, brushing her arm to his. “When I turn eighteen, let’s get some wine, though. Even if it’s really cheap and tastes more like vinegar.”

“If we pool money, we could get one more expensive bottle, but I can’t guarantee that it won’t _also_ taste like vinegar. I actually hate wine,” Silver admitted.

That inspired more conversation, and Lyra just basked in the feeling of being with him as they walked to wherever it was that Silver wanted cicchetti. The sun was setting behind them, casting long shadows before them and warming her back. _This has been a good day, all things considered,_ Lyra decided. _Not much could improve this._ Her gaze found Silver’s face again, and affection coursed through her, unbridled.

* * *

**Present Day**

Because Silver had forgotten to check departure schedules, he and Lyra had to sprint to catch the last water bus back to the sestieri before it switched to its night routes. They arrived just as they were beginning to pull away from the dock. Once on the water bus, Lyra leaned against the railing and caught her breath. “Oh my God,” she said, in English, wheezing all the while, “I can’t remember the last time I ran. Maybe gym class or something.”

“You only graduated a few weeks ago, right? It could be worse,” he responded, not nearly as out of breath. He had to run to work more times than he could count, whenever Proton called him in on a whim. Silver also slept through alarms with upsetting frequency.

His face turned to her as she laughed, the sound of it thin and breathless. “Classes ran on semester schedules at my high school. The last gym class of my high school career ended in December,” she admitted, her tone cheeky. “I like to walk and bike places but you’ll never catch me running for fun.”

“You must never run late,” Silver said, his tone spiced.

She shrugged. “Early is on time. On time is late. Late is…oh, I don’t know, bullshit,” she said. “Not sure how that quote goes.”

“It’s probably ‘Late is unacceptable,’” Silver pointed out.

She shook her head at him, eyes sparkling with mirth. The boat cut across the waves, and Lyra turned to watch Burano shrink away behind them. A moment later, she said, “I had a lot of fun,” she said, flipping back into Italian. “It’s easy to see why you go there and fish. Thank you for sharing that with me.”

His face grew warm. “Yeah, no problem,” he said, running a hand through his hair.

An amicable silence grew between then. Lyra watched the low, red sun sparkle on the waves as they approached the sestieri. Silver watched her watch the waves. Its red glow on her face cast stark shadows under her brows and cheekbones, made the softer brown and gold hints of her irises stand out. It was harder and harder to look away from her lately.

Their day together, mostly alone on the pier, had nearly flown by, in his eyes. Was it just a trick of the eye, or had Lyra been… _coy?_ She had stayed close to him, but often averted his gaze and covered up her expressions. By her nature, Lyra always showed affection, yet, to Silver, something had changed with her. There was a different air to her interactions, a new meaning behind them somehow, something Silver was not yet privy to. _What is on your mind?_ Silver wanted to ask, but he knew he’d just get that dazzling, toothy smile and a noncommittal answer.

The more he thought about it, the hotter his face became. He poked at his cheeks; they felt like the surface of the Sun. Lyra glanced up at him. “Are you alright?” she asked him, her tone amused.

“Yes,” he said, his tone flat. After a second, he lied, “I can’t figure out if I’m sunburned or not.”

“You want me to slap you and see if it stings?” Lyra said, her expression intense.

“No! Why was _that_ your first suggestion?” Silver demanded.

Her intense expression broke into a smile. She flapped her hand, forever wearing that mask of genial nonchalance. “I couldn’t help myself,” she said, her mouth quirking. She turned to him and studied his face. “Hard to tell in this light, but we could duck over there.” She pointed to further under the overhang of the water bus, where fewer people were. There was also white, sterile light there.

He followed her there. The chatter from tourists echoed under the overhang, almost tinny, and Lyra stopped. She stepped closer to Silver, gazing up at his face. “You do look a little pink,” she said.” A moment later, she had her fingers on his jaw as she ducked around to observe from a few angles. “Mind bending just a bit? I’m getting an eyeful of chin here.”

Silver obliged, hyperaware of the scrutiny of her gaze and the coolness of her fingers on his skin. “Hmm,” she said, and her voice was breathy and soft, her eyes searching his face. He felt her breath, soft gales on his jaw and mouth as she looked at him. Silver was frozen as she gently angled his face one way. Her eyes locked with his, and a humorous glint entered her eye, “I gotta say, if I just slapped you a little—”

The spell was broken. Feeling like a twelve year old, he reached out and poked both of her cheeks. “Oh gee, are _you_ sunburned? Does it _sting?_ Maybe I should _poke_ you to find out,” he snarked.

She cackled and tried to step away from him, only to be met with more pokes. “It was a joke!” she said, laughing and trying to ward his hands off and failing. “You’re such a dork!”

After a few more admonishments and a failure to cease said poking, Lyra grabbed his hands and trapped them against her cheeks, huffing. “Do you _really_ think I’d slap you?” she said, glaring at him with impossibly dark eyes.

He shook his head. “Nah, you’re all bark. No bite,” he said, his tone soft. Lyra scoffed, but she grinned, her eyes shutting with the motion. It was a huge, toothy one, the sort that jolted him from the top of his head to the tips of his toes. Her eyes opened again, meeting his for a second, and then directed down to their feet.

She rubbed her thumbs over the backs of his hands, unable to contain that smile of hers. “I don’t bite,” she said, her voice low. It sent a thrill through him; it took all he had to not shiver.

 _What is going on between us?_ Lyra had asked. Silver had an inkling, but he didn’t dare say.

Her hair was falling out of the pigtails now, strands moving with her breath. A few faint freckles marked her cheekbones, so faint and soft, unlike his. The water bus shifted its course, sending red light pooling over her. Her eyes flicked back up to his, and she gave him a tender, private smile. An absurd desire within him rose up, roaring in his head and his heart and obscuring any nascent thought. _Kiss her,_ said every fiber of his body and being. _Just fucking kiss her. She’s right there. Just go for it._

The feeling must have been apparent in his face, for her brows lifted questioningly. He moved his hands, better cupping her face, and quit hesitating. He leaned in and just _brushed_ his lips against hers. Electricity crackled within him, lightning That short contact was enough to make her entire body tense, and her hands gripped over his hard. He pulled away to see shock coloring her features. The red light was vanishing again; in its absence the red of her face was all that much more obvious. She released him and stepped back, her hand over her mouth.

 _Did…did I misread the situation?_ Silver thought, on the cusp of panicking. A thousand thoughts flew through his head. Did he even _deserve_ to think of her like that? To kiss her? What if he was just the stupidest human being in the history of the world, standing before a girl who was simply just being _nice_ to him? He almost wanted to cry.

Then the shock gave way to a depth of emotion Silver couldn’t quite read. Lyra’s eyes crinkled. She lowered her hand from her face and took a step back toward him, hesitant, as though unsure of how to proceed. She reached for his hand and gripped it, pulling him back toward the railing. He followed, afraid of ruining the moment. As they stood there, Lyra leaned against him, resting her head against his shoulder. She said nothing, but she gripped him tightly. His heart was racing, so fast he almost felt dizzy.  

When the water bus reached the dock, Lyra still wouldn’t let go of him. He led her off, almost in a dreamlike state. _I have to say something. But what do I say? What do I ask?_ Silver thought, panicked. What was going on in her head?

They found themselves on a relatively quiet side street. Once again, the lamps were up. The canal they were nearest sloshed against the walls containing it, and Silver felt as though he was floating along.

At a corner, Lyra tugged at his hand ever so slightly. He looked at her, anxiously. She released his hand, only to grab his shirt and pull him down to her level. Lyra kissed him, far harder than he had kissed her earlier. He thought his chest would explode with the thrill of it. He shuddered at the contact and pulled her closer, his arms wrapped around her, pressing as close to her as he dared. She broke the kiss and pressed one at the corner of his mouth. There, she whispered, “Sorry, wanted to make it _clear_ that I’m glad you kissed me.”

Breathless, Silver laughed. “You really do have bad taste,” he told her.

“Stuff it,” she told him, bumping her forehead against his chest. She pulled back, breaking the contact. Her eyes were serious, as she regarded him in the growing darkness. “You never answered the other day. What’s going on between us?”

Silver looked at her, eyes wild and color burning in her cheek. “I don’t know.”

She chuckled, but the sound bordered on humorless. “I’ll try it this way, then. What am I to you?” she asked. She drew closer to him as a pack of tourists, speaking the brusque Italian of northern Italy, fluttered past.

He brushed loose strands of hair from her face and tucked it behind her ear. How did he quantify his messy, affectionate feelings toward her? “You’re…you’re someone I can’t look away from,” he said, his voice barely more than a whisper. “And it scares me.”

She closed her eyes as his hand traced along her hairline. After a few seconds more, he realized she wasn’t going to respond to his answer. Silver hedged, “What am I to you?”

“Someone I want to make smile,” she responded. He couldn’t help but smile at that, and Lyra opened her eyes in time to catch it. She returned the expression, in that appealing way of hers that daggered straight into his core. “Whatever we are…I…like you,” she said. “Maybe a lot. That scares me.”

“So we’re just scared together, is what you’re telling me? We’re just chicken shit, huh?” Silver said.

She scowled. “Remember when you said that _I_ ruin moments?”

He shoved his hands in his pockets and laughed raucously. She shook her head at him, her expression comically gruff.

They continued walking through Venice. His hand was in hers again. They came to the halfway point, the bookstore with its warm yellow lights still on. It was there that they stopped; beyond Burano, they hadn’t discussed other plans for the day. “Come to my apartment tonight,” he said, his hand tight in hers.

She shook her head, surprising him. “I…want to process what happened today,” she told him. Lyra let go of his hand, but the gaze she fixed him with was tender. “I…I’m going to be honest. I’m not good with these things. I had a three month relationship my junior year of high school where we maybe saw each other four times outside of school in total. I kissed someone at a party once, and I then felt so awkward about it I never spoke to them again. But I’ve never really felt like this, and I don’t know what to do,” she admitted. “And it’s so fast. This is all really fast, and I don’t want to do or say anything stupid.”

Relief washed over him at the thought, but disappointment at her polite refusal tinged the feeling. “You are the way you are, and you mean to tell me you’ve had _one_ relationship in your life?” he said incredulously.

Lyra lifted her eyebrows. “Are you saying I look like a fast and loose kind of woman?” she said.

“Uh, no,” he said, but Lyra was already chuckling. “You’re making fun of me.”

“Just a little. I can’t help myself,” she said, giggling. Drawing closer to him, she stretched on her tiptoes and kissed his cheek. “I know what you meant. I’m flattered you think people would line up to date me, just so you know,” she said.

Before he could respond, she began walking in the direction of her aunt’s apartment. “I’ll text you tomorrow. I promise! You have another day off and I’m gonna monopolize it!” Lyra called back to him.

He couldn’t help but smile. “Sounds very bourgeois of you!” He responded.

“You sound bourgeois whenever you say bourgeois!” she retorted. With that, she trotted away, swallowed up in streetlights and darkness.

Silver stood there, long after she had gone, and then covered his face with his hands. “Oh my God,” he muttered to himself, unable to contain the incredulous laugh. With a bounce in his step, he headed back toward his apartment, feeling lighter than air. She said she liked him! What a _delicious_ feeling it was, to know the feeling was mutual.

 _What is going on between us?_ Lyra had asked. Silver still didn’t have a good answer for it, but the feeling of it was addictive.

* * *

**Present Day**

Silver had kissed her. Silver had _kissed_ her. Silver. Had. Kissed. Her!

Lyra buried her face in her pillow and resisted the urge to squeal. Upon returning home, she’d answered a few questions from Adrianna, who seemed rather _knowing_ as usual, and then retreated to her room to both panic and celebrate. She felt feverish and giddy at the thought of what had happened between them.

He had kissed her, and it had been so gentle and uncertain and sweet, and the thought of it made her face _burn._ All of her was burning. _London, 1666?_ Lyra thought, wishing she had someone to quip to, and snickered.

At the same time, she didn’t know _where_ to go from there. So they kissed. They kissed several times. Her limited experience didn’t give her much to go by or work from. Whatever happened, she just wanted to keep spending as much time as possible with him. A substantial part of her wished she’d gone to his apartment with him, but what would have happened had she gone? _I need to process,_ she told herself. _You do not need to go there tonight and kiss him like a million more times._

Truth be told, she wanted to.

She removed the pillow from her face and checked her phone. There was a message from the group chat she had with Kris and Ethan. Both of them had been harassing her since she’d told them about finding Silver again; while they had never been as close with Silver, they were curious about how he was and what he was doing. She flicked it open to find Ethan had messaged, _What were you up to today?_

Lyra smiled and pulled up the selfie Silver had taken. Without divulging anything more than she had to, she sent, _Hung out with this giant dork,_ she replied as she sent it.

No more than fifteen seconds later, Ethan responded, _The hat and sunglasses are not his look._

Lyra laughed and typed back, _You just wish you could wear round sunglasses._

Kris popped in with, _RIP Ethan, too round in the face for Lyra’s round sunglasses._

Ethan sent back a frownie face. Lyra giggled again and flicked to the picture. Silver’s grin was unrepentant, what would show up in the dictionary if “shit-eating grin” would be found under the S’s. Or would it be under the G’s, phrased like grin, shit-eating? Lyra didn’t know. Her face was surprised, but content, her grin on the cusp of surprised laughter. She selected the three selfies, the one he took and the two she took, and saved them to her backups.

Lyra decided to take more pictures of him, as well as pictures together. She thought of the handful of photographs her mother had taken when they were kids that were not nearly enough. “I should get a Polaroid,” she mumbled to herself.

She came back into the chat to find Kris and Ethan arguing. Ethan was telling Kris that crop tops made her torso look “freakishly long”—an argument that they had been having for two years now—not that it stopped Kris from wearing them when she felt like it. Lyra reminded Ethan, _You’re being a very mean gay_ , which resulted in a slew of argumentative messages, still largely between Ethan and Kris.

She smiled. _I miss them,_ she realized. Sometime in the near future they had to video chat. If she could, she would get Silver to join in, even if it was just to say hello to people he had been familiar with once. A sillier thought rolled through her; she could easily create a chat with her, her friends, and Silver, but something told her that Silver would resist the idea quite hard.

To ignore the wisp of homesickness, she set her phone aside and stared at the ceiling, a sense of contentment rolling through her. She was infatuated, her friends were being themselves, and the weather had been glorious. Her plans for tomorrow included kissing Silver some more, regardless of whatever else they did. What an outstanding feeling it was, to have it all click. For now, the turmoil of the past few days was gone, leaving only a catlike satisfaction that left her sleepy and centered.

She hoped Silver was feeling the same way.

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello it FINALLY HAPPENED. 11 CHAPTERS IN AND THEY KISSED OH MY LORD. I felt this day would never come. The pacing in this fic is far different than I originally intended it to be
> 
> I was originally hoping to include this part in 10 but realized that would be like a 11,000 word update, and the 10,000 word one was already pushing it haha
> 
> Well, I don't have much to say for this chapter, other than Proton got his dues.
> 
> No music to link for this chapter (there will likely be a TON next time). 
> 
> Until next time, take care!
> 
> ~Mars


	12. Chapter 12

**Present Day**

Silver’s face burned. It wouldn’t stop burning. Maybe he was doomed to be burning forever, like a fire started within a coalmine. He was standing in the shower, icy water trickling over his head, trying to cool the flame within him, and failed miserably. He knew what Proton would say about a cold shower; yet, was Proton there to remark on it? Silver pushed the thought aside and faced the issue at hand.

_I kissed Lyra,_ he thought, and he groaned. To make matters _worse,_ she’d kissed him back and kissed him on the cheek.

Every cell in his body was screaming to go find her. It was too early in the night to be without her after the day’s activities, but instead he was showering, left alone to his thoughts, and to thoughts that would surely descend to Hell.

The glow of wanting and feeling wanted began to fade, as he washed and left the shower. Silver pulled on whatever he found first in his dresser and left his hair, still dripping, to hang down his back and soak his clothes. He thought of the ferocity with which she had kissed him back, how she had pulled him to her level, how warm her body had been against his. Yet, that insidious, bastard voice in the back of his head didn’t let him enjoy the thoughts.

Sure, Lyra said she _liked_ him, but she liked him as she knew him right now. Someone who wanted to make efforts to be better, someone who spent as much of his free time with her as he could, someone who enjoyed music as much as she did. Weren’t those just the shallows of the sea, where the sand was white, and the water was warm? What of the darker depths, the cold bottom filled with abject horrors?

He sighed and filled his electric kettle with water. _Chill the hell out,_ he told himself, but his mind swirled, a vortex of maladaptive thoughts. She had so little experience, had scarcely dated and saw him with wide, gentle eyes. It was easy to fall for another person that way.

Silver leaned over the counter and watched as the kettle gradually began to steam. He pressed a hand to his forehead and sighed. There was a time where he had been so like her, so quick to find himself infatuated and so unable to act. Steam coiled higher now, the water rumbling in the kettle. His mouth quirked, but it was humorlessly.

How strange it was, to be the recipient of such wide-eyed admiration now when he had been the one administering it to her then.

Silver hadn’t realized it, until they were on a different continent, in a country where Silver didn’t speak a single word of the language. It was a thought he had once, staring out at gray, lonely streets in an isolated Russian city: _I hope she knew how much I liked her._ It was a thought he’d avoided since, in a bid to dodge loneliness and despair.

But what of now? He cast those thoughts away as he turned off the kettle. Silver set a teabag in his favorite mug and stared into the mug as the darkness of the tea spread, much as his thoughts had clouded. If she knew of what he’d had to do, would she still care for him? Would she still want him?

He was still burning. His face burned. Everything about him was burning for her. He took his mug and sipped its contents, his tongue scalded with heat. His world was on fire, was burning; he supposed his mouth didn’t have to be any different. How was he to go forward with her, with someone who could give her heart with abandon if she wanted to? Silver didn’t know, and that terrified him.

Yet he wanted it. He wanted her. He wanted her to want him. And he burned, burned, _burned._

* * *

**Present Day**

“You’re in a good mood this morning.”

Lyra, still aglow from the day prior, sat in the kitchen and hummed a buoyant melody as she waited for her coffee to prepare. Adrianna was sitting at the table, polishing yet another plate of eggs, when she made that observation to Lyra.

She turned, her hair swinging over her shoulders. Lyra had opted to leave it down when she had gotten dressed. “Am I?” she said, beaming.

“For certain. I sense your day with Silver was…fruitful,” she hedged.

Lyra nodded. The coffee maker began dripping coffee into the pot, and the warm, earthy smell made her mouth water. “Oh, for sure. It was a great day,” she said. She adjusted her shorts and shifted her weight from foot to foot impatiently. “I just want the freaking coffee,” she groaned.

Adrianna smiled at her. “Are you going to elaborate?”

“Maybe sometime. For now it’s…” she paused and thought. “It’s a happy, private little thing.”

“You had sex, then?” Adrianna retorted.

Lyra bristled. “Why is that _everyone’s_ first assumption?”

Adrianna laughed and polished off her eggs before responding, “It wasn’t my first assumption. I’m just teasing. Not to mention that your phrasing was _deeply_ suspect.”

The coffeemaker had finished, and Lyra tugged the pot loose and poured herself a mug of it. She wasn’t going to entertain her aunt’s questions. Adrianna watched her as she did. “So, I assume you’ll be spending more time with Silver today?” she said.

Lyra nodded. “Yes. He’ll be by in like half an hour.” She had texted him no more than ten minutes upon waking up, and they’d made plans to see Basilica di San Marco, or Saint Mark’s Basilica, and “avoid mass and then wander Venice.”

Adrianna gave her a smile. “I imagine you’ll be back late again. If you find you’re out late, though, and it works better, don’t be afraid to spend the night at his place—”

“Yeah, you’re incorrigible.” Lyra mixed cream and sugar into her coffee and sipped it. She brought it to the bathroom vanity with her, where she quickly applied mascara and filled in her eyebrows. Lyra peered at herself in the mirror, making sure she didn’t look _too_ dressed up. She was wearing red shorts, paired with white, lace-trimmed summer top; she wore no jewelry, other than a simple silver necklace with a treble clef pendant. Lyra tugged at the off-the shoulder sleeves, making sure they hung evenly, and then sipped coffee.

She didn’t know how to move forward with Silver, truth be told. The thought of seeing him again was both terrifying and thrilling; she’d so aggressively kissed him. How did she interact with him now? _Maybe I’ll know better when he gets here,_ she said, leaving the bathroom and downing the rest of the coffee as fast as she dared. _But oh my._

The rest of the wait passed agonizingly slowly. Drinking coffee may not have helped her cause; she was feeling keyed up and hyperactive, unable to stop drumming her fingers. She toyed with the idea of putting her hair up before settling on grabbing a hairtie to wear on her wrist.

When the doorbell finally rang, she nearly jumped out of her skin. She grabbed her purse, tucked her phone away, and trotted to the stairs, passing Adrianna along the way. “Bye-bye! I’ll see you later!” she said.

“Much later,” Lyra thought she heard Adrianna say as she headed downstairs.

At the door of the shop, Lyra hesitated. _How will things be today?_ Lyra thought, her lips parted as though to ask that aloud. Her hand hovered over the handle. Steeling her resolve, she opened the door and stepped out to an overcast morning.

Silver was waiting there. He was in his usual black attire, complete with black Doc Martens that didn’t seem appropriate for the heat. He met her gaze, and his eyes were gentle. “Hi,” he said to her.

Her face was growing warm under his gaze. _Fuck._ She shuffled her feet a bit, unsure of what more to say. Thankfully, Silver seemed chatty. In fact, he was verging into the territory of motormouth as he said, “So, I hope you didn’t want to go into the basilica today, because there’s mass this morning, and neither of us are dressed for mass,” he said, starting to walk. Lyra trotted along after him, which made him slow down a bit so she could keep up. “Not to mention I haven’t gone to confession in like four years, and I’d feel extreme guilt going to mass like that.”

Lyra snorted. “Man, I’ve never been to confession. I never was confirmed. I think God would probably have more of an issue with me.”

“Something tells me you would have less to confess than me,” Silver said.

“Oh really? I’ll have you know I have eaten the last piece of cake or cookie remorselessly several times,” she scolded him. “I’m a verified badass.”

Silver shook his head at her, but she noticed the quirk of the smile passing his face. As they walked along, Lyra brushed her fingers against his. She felt her heart leap as his fingers linked through hers, securing her to him as the walk became increasingly crowded. They chatted about Lyra’s perceived sins while walking.

“For real, though,” Silver interrupted as Lyra mentioned pulling a tulip from a flowerbox to give to a friend when she was a kid, “what would you say the _worst_ thing you’ve ever done was?”

Lyra thought for a moment, tapping her chin. “Hmm. That’s…that’s a tough one to answer. I’ve done some crummy stuff in my time.”

“Yes, like eating the last cookie,” he poked.

A memory came to mind, and Lyra winced a bit. “Well, to be honest, my freshman year, a sort of unpopular guy in my school who was a senior begged me to go to prom with him like six weeks before prom. I was in concert band with him, and we both played trumpet. I wasn’t allowed to date yet and I definitely didn’t feel anything for him. So this guy freaked me out more than a little with his question. But I also was like ‘wow an older boy thinks I’m cute! Neat!’”

Silver interrupted, “So what did you to do this guy?”

Lyra sighed. “Instead of saying ‘Thanks but no thanks’ or explaining that it just wasn’t viable, I told him I’d think about it, and it depended on if my mom would let me go with him. It was the wrong thing to say. He harassed me about it, and I was just unable to say no. The initial flattered feeling wore off, but I just didn’t know how to say no without crushing him.” She paused and rubbed at her neck. “I even lied and told him my mom seemed okay with me going with him. I tried to hint I wasn’t feeling it and he needed to ask another girl or just make plans to go with some friends. He totally brushed me off every time I suggested that, and finally about two weeks before prom I felt so bad I lied and just said my mom had changed her mind. He was so crushed and told everyone for weeks I screwed him over at rehearsals. I guess he wasn’t wrong. I still think he should’ve moved on, but I also know I didn’t help the situation.”

Silver was silent for a moment. “Did he even go to prom?”

“His bitching in the band got him a pity date from a first chair trombonist, but I heard she had a horrible time,” Lyra admitted with a sigh. “I still feel terrible thinking about it. I learned from it, though. I put a stop to things I didn’t like in the future, as nicely as I could.”

Something flickered through Silver’s expression, and he tightened his grip on her hand. “He sounds like a fucker, though. He put all his eggs in one basket. And you were what, like fourteen? Fifteen?”

“Fourteen,” she said. “Like a really fucking stupid fourteen. The kind of fourteen where I did not pay attention whatsoever in school.”

“Oh yes, I’m sure God needs you to confess to _that_ sin immediately. You’re going straight to confession once we’re there,” Silver told her.

She laughed. “You don’t think it’s that bad? I strung the dude along for a month.”

“Yeah, as a fourteen year old being pressured by someone who’s seventeen or eighteen,” he dismissed. “I’m sure he’s gotten over it.”

“I don’t know. He blocked me on Facebook and still has me blocked,” she admitted with a chuckle.

Silver laughed. “Damn. You really _did_ fuck up. That’s a death sentence.”

Lyra felt her mouth press into a goofy smile. “Yeah, didn’t get invited to his grad party. The rest of the band was, though. I don’t know that I’m too hurt over it, other than being the sole person who wasn’t invited to his grad party in our ensemble.” She swung their linked hands between them. “What about you? Did you also string along a weird senior boy as a fourteen year old?”

“Oh you know me,” Silver said, but nervousness flashed through his expression. “I have plenty of stories about terrible shit I’ve done, but I don’t know I want to tell you this morning.”

Annoyance flashed through Lyra, but she nodded. “No problem.”

When they arrived at la Basilica di San Marco, conversation ceased as Lyra’s jaw dropped. “Wow,” she whispered, letting go of Silver’s hand. Its white façade was stark and clean, with bright gold and deep blue accents. It was covered in arches and angels, with clusters of columns. There were a few people milling about outside. Lyra assumed most were inside, attending the mass that was taking place. “It’s so…old. And pretty.”

“It’s Italo-Byzantine. I think construction started in 926 on it and finished like 1092 or something like that,” he told her.

She smiled at him. “You have a really good memory for facts like that.”

He blushed and looked away. “I just…read a lot.”

“Well, I like it.” She grabbed his hand again. His blush made her want to kiss him again, but she noticed he was keeping a larger physical distance from her here, even while holding her hand. _We are by a cathedral,_ she told herself as she took in the view. _Behave._

They wandered around the square in front of the Basilica for a while, sometimes close enough to touch its columns and other times far enough away that the holy imagery on its façade became impossible to discern. Silver knew a great deal about it, filling her on dates and historical facts about the Basilica. His memory for those concepts was both endearing and incredible to her; Lyra didn’t consider herself forgetful, but his attention to detail impressed her. “I just…can’t believe how pretty it is. And that it’s a functional thing,” she added, pausing to look at him. “Like that if we weren’t shitty Catholics, we could go in there.”

“You consider yourself Catholic? Didn’t you only go to mass on Christmas?” Silver remarked, amused.

“That and Easter. Plus, Mom was divorced, and she didn’t care enough to get back into good standing after. But I mean…I guess that’s kind of what I know, so if someone asks I’ll vaguely tell them that,” she said with a laugh. “I don’t actually really care for it.”

Silver led her to a ledge produced by the masonry on a wall that sat kitty-corner to the Basilica and sat there. She hopped up, her toes dangling. “Dad wanted me to be in good standing in the worst way,” Silver said. “So we went to mass, no matter where we lived. Just telling you right now, finding a Catholic church in Russia was hard.”

“Oh yeah, they’re Orthodox or whatever, right?” Lyra asked.

He nodded. He let go of her hand and stared out at the square, his expression growing stormy. “Yeah. He made me go to classes to get confirmed and everything. Which was a pain in the ass, because when I was sixteen I was living in Prague and almost no one taught confirmation classes in any languages I knew there. We finally found an expat neighborhood full of Americans and Brits, and I took classes in English there.”

Lyra peered at him. “So, you know Italian, German, English…?”

“Enough Russian to piss off Russian speakers. French. Enough Spanish to fu—mess it up with Italian,” he admitted, catching himself before he swore in front of a church. “A lot. But most of the time once I got comfortable, we’d pick up and leave again.

She whistled. “You’re really smart.”

“No I’m not. I was doing what I had to do,” he said, but regardless he seemed to puff up at her compliment. “You’re not exactly doing that bad. English, Italian…you said Spanish?”

“Enough Spanish to mess it up with Italian,” she parroted back to him. The corner of his mouth twitched at that. Lyra stared at the sky, overcast but bright; she sensed the clouds would break soon to reveal the late morning sun. “A bit of Japanese, too, but not much.”

“Did your dad teach you?” he asked her.

She shook her head. “Funny story, actually. He doesn’t know a lick of Japanese, but I started learning it with the hopes that my dad would be impressed by it. I have family that still lives in Japan and doesn’t speak much English, so I was trying to show reverence to them. Plus my grandparents still speak it about half the time at home.” Lyra pushed her hair off her forehead. “But…I’ve never gone to Japan. My dad didn’t take interest in it. My grandparents, when I visited them, never wanted to speak it with me. So I gave up.”

Silver’s brow furrowed. “That sounds really sad.”

“Is it? It’s just the facts. It’s a bullsh—terrible language to learn for fun,” she said, correcting herself as Silver glanced over at her. She laughed. “Are you kind of God-fearing, Silver?”

“Old habits,” he said, but his expression suggested that the answer was more likely a “yes.”

She settled back, watching as more people filtered into the square. Her mind conjured the ghost of sanctimonious pipe organ music within the Basilica, flowing proudly through an ornate chapel. “It sounds like it meant something to you at some point.”

“It did. It was a constant thing. Wherever we went, mass was pretty much the same,” he said. “But it got harder to believe in it, as I felt more and more isolated.”

Lyra glanced at him as he sighed. “Without…without getting that far into it, after I found out my dad lied, it was just the cherry on top of the world’s worst sundae. I…you know…I just wondered why God would put a kid through so much loneliness and give him a father who wanted to beat him into whatever shape he wanted. Yeah, we had a ton of money. We had food. I pretty much had whatever I wanted as long as I behaved. But I never had anyone but him. Not after you. Any friendships I made were shallow and convenient, a way to not feel alone for the six months we were staying anywhere.”

Lyra felt her gut drop at his words. She scooted a few inches closer as he rubbed at his nose. A dark, sad smile crossed his features before he turned to her. “I gave up on all of it after I found out Giovanni lied to me and I ran away.”

_He ran away?_ She searched his face, wondering if he was joking. After a moment, she breathed, “That’s why you were homeless then.”

“It’s why I spent about a year adrift. I couldn’t stand to look at him, so I gathered what I could, took a train from Prague to Florence, and spent a year wandering trying to figure out where to go from there. I officially kind of gave up on the church then. I gave up on God, then,” he admitted. “I say as I sit here, in front of a house of God.”

She shrugged. In a soft voice, she told him, “I think God probably has heard and seen worse in front of a church.”

“Yeah, like you nearly saying bullshit in front of a church,” he said, a wry grin touching his face.

Lyra raised her eyebrows. “You just said it.”

He paused, then hung his head. Silver knocked his knuckles against his forehead. “Yeah, I definitely have to go to confession now unless I want to be smote.”

Lyra wrapped an arm around his neck and gave a comforting squeeze. “It’s alright. I’m told death by lightning strike is pretty fast.”

“What is wrong with you?” he muttered, but he wrapped an arm around her waist and squeezed back.

They explored the rest of the square and the surrounding area, letting Lyra marvel at old buildings and allowing Silver to show off his deep well of historical knowledge. His grip on her hand was unrelenting, his gaze on her insistent. She wondered what was on his mind. As seemed to be customary for them, they wandered away and bought gelato, which Silver insisted on paying for. “You’ve bought it twice,” he told her when she complained at this declaration in line at a crowded gelato shop.

“You bought me dinner!” she said.

“Yeah, but was that _twice_?” He reminded her. Lyra _hmphed_ and bumped him with her hip.

“No, but that’s different. That’s substantial food, whereas here we are eating gelato for _lunch,_ ” she griped.

He shook his head at her. “I don’t follow your logic with that at all. But I’m guessing you’ll be getting strawberry.”

“Stuff it,” she muttered to him. As he turned away, she caught that wry grin of his. “And yes, of course I want strawberry. And _fior di latte._ ”

Outside, they sat on yet another low wall, overlooking the sparkling waterway that stretched between the sestieri of San Marco, where they stood, and at the sestieri of Giudecca that lay across the water. The sun was now out, and Lyra pushed her sunglasses onto her face as she ate her strawberry gelato. They sat thigh to thigh, staring out at the water. Silver offered her a lick of his cone; gone for a bitter chocolate and a sweet hazelnut. “Yeah I would not eat that chocolate scoop by itself,” she said, her eyes almost watering at the flavor of the chocolate scoop. “But you like bitter foods.”

“It has to be good bitter,” he told her, his tone bordering on complaining. “Don’t just assume that I’ll like it because it’s bitter.”

“I suppose. You don’t exactly like coffee. I’m not kidding when I say you’d like mochas, though,” she reminded him.

He scoffed. “Then make me one,” he challenged.

“Don’t mind if I do. We have an espresso maker at home,” Lyra said. “I’ll even put some whipped cream on it.”

He snorted. Lyra looked at her cone and flicked it his way. “I don’t imagine you’d be interested, but you want a taste?”

Much to her surprise, he leaned forward and gave her cone a lick. His face rumpled. “Yeah, I don’t know why I did that,” he admitted, shaking his head. “I never like strawberry.”

“It’s because you like me,” Lyra teased.

His face grew red, and he averted his gaze. Lyra had to stifle a giggle. A moment later, he turned back to her and nodded. “Uh, yeah. Honestly.”

Her heart swelled. She rested her head against his shoulder for a second before turning to her gelato. “Good, because I like you. Even if you like weird, bitter foods.”

“I like you, even if you like fruity, sweet foods,” Silver snipped back.

As they sat, so physically close and borderline flirtatious, Lyra thought back to their earlier conversation. Her good mood began to cloud, and she felt her smile fall. _Every time I hear something about his past, I feel so much sadder for him,_ she thought. She was down to the cone now, which she bit into. _I hadn’t known he’d tried so hard to be a good Catholic._ When they were children, she remembered how aggravated he’d be whenever he came back from mass. It didn’t seem in his nature, to be a person of faith. It did, however, seem to be in his nature to have something to focus on and hold onto. His life was a revolving door, where everyone passed in and out of it as they pleased with little regard for what he wanted or needed.

In spite of it, there was such deep goodness to him. Even if he was brusque and sarcastic, there was a kind, protective side to him that she had known and missed, a side that had grown even in the face of his troubles. _He really has a big heart,_ she thought, watching him. _He just has it hidden from most._

After she finished her cone, she pressed herself as close to him as she could and lifted his arm to slip under it. Silver glanced down at her. “What are you doing?” he asked, his tone indicating he had no issue with the arrangement.

“Nothing,” she said. She heard his heart through his chest, beating quickly. It drove away the despair that was growing within her, to hear him so close to her. After he finished his gelato, she tugged him down to her level, where she kissed his cheek. “Thanks for the gelato. And for showing me the Basilica,” she said to him.

She saw him jolt at the contact. A moment later, he turned and kissed her forehead. Lyra sighed, contented, as his lips pulled away. “I…like doing things for you,” he said, resting his chin on top of her head.

Lyra grinned. “Good. I like doing things for you, too.”

“Yeah, you do way too much,” he scoffed. She felt his jaw move as he talked. “I eat all your food and stay way too late at your place.”

“Do I look like I give a shit about that?” she asked him.

He shrugged, his shoulder moving up and down past her face. “Maybe you’re too nice to tell me no.”

Lyra was about to respond with a joke, but instead she sensed a serious note in what he said. She pulled away at him and looked at him in earnest. “Remember how I said I learned my lesson with that? If it bothered me, I’d say something. You remember how much shit I gave Proton yesterday?”

His eyes glinted with amusement. “That was pretty funny. He didn’t really know how to deal with it.”

“Right. If you were annoying to me, I’d be like that to you. Really mean and on purpose. Not just…half-assed mean,” she said.

He laughed. “You’re mean? Remember how you’re all bark and no bite? Like a lapdog?”

“You stop that!” They teased each other for a while, occasionally earning odd looks from passing tourists. Lyra wanted to kiss him for real, to tangle her fingers in his hair and feel him pull her closer. She reminded herself of how public the spot was, especially as the afternoon began to peak and the sun was out, washing her surroundings in a bright glow.

At some point, their teasing moved to clothes. “And look at you!” she said, pointing at his Doc Martens. “Those are not summer shoes! I don’t even want to know how sweaty your feet are.” She kicked the bottoms of her feet, sandal-clad, against the leather of his boots. “You wearing all black is one thing, but these shoes are another thing altogether.”

“Don’t tell me how to live my life,” he said. His eyes focused on the lace hem of her shirt. “I mean, look at you. That lace will snag on anything.”

“No it won’t. Not unless I stand by something rusty and pointy, maybe,” Lyra retorted.

He reached out and snagged the hem. In the process, the back of his fingers brushed against her bare stomach underneath. A jolt ran up her spine and she almost missed as he balled the fabric in his hands and said, “Just saying, this looks like it’s a problem, Lyra,” he said, his tone joking. His expression changed when he noticed her expression. “Did I do something wrong?” he asked.

_Not even remotely,_ she wanted to say, but the words wouldn’t come. He slowly began to release the fabric, and his fingers touched her skin again. A slow heat rolled through her face, and she chuckled, the sound low and throaty. Silver seemed to realize what he did and let go quickly, putting a few more inches of space between them. Lyra’s eyes flicked to him, a strange feeling overcoming her.

Silver opened his mouth, looking as though he was preparing to apologize, when Lyra said, “Hey, I haven’t been to your apartment recently. Can we go over there?”

“Wait why would we…” he trailed off and eyed her. An odd, keen look entered his eye. “What’s the rush? It’s just afternoon,” she said, his voice filled with a note of teasing. He _knew._ He _knew_ something was up with her.

She hopped off the wall and stepped in front of him. Lyra cupped his face, looking at him. “We can wait, but I think the feeling to _see your apartment_ would probably _pass if we don’t go now,_ ” Lyra said.

Silver’s eyes widened for a moment before a smirk touched his features. He leaned in closer to her, brought his mouth close to her ear, and said, “No, I think I’ll go home alone. I have things to think about.”

Her face burned. She whispered back, “You’re an asshole.”

He laughed at that and stepped down. His hand latched around hers as he said, “I’m kidding. Let’s go. We’re going right now. Can’t back out.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it,” she told him, following him.

* * *

**Present Day**

He wanted her. He wanted her to want him. And he burned, burned, _burned._

It wasn’t the walk, close to thirty minutes back to his apartment, that was the longest. To Silver, the hallway and stairs seemed almost torturously long. His heart was pounding, his face was hot, and Lyra was _so close,_ her fingers linked through his _._

He wanted her. He wanted her to want him. And he burned, burned, _burned._

At the door to his apartment, he unlocked the door, flung it open, and pulled her in. She squeaked a little as he cupped her face, gazing down at her. Before either of them could say another word, he kissed her, far more softly than the roar in his ears. She gasped, the sound of it quiet, but she returned the kiss, her fingers linking over his wrists. The truth was, he had little experience, not all that much more than her. He’d kissed people before and been kissed, out of necessity more than any draw. But to her he was drawn, a satellite captured in her orbit.

He wanted her. He wanted her to want him. And he burned, burned, _burned._

Lyra broke the kiss and embraced him with a ferocity he wasn’t accustomed to, her body fit perfectly to the front of his. He wrapped his arms around her. One hand tangled in her hair, the other leading its way around her back until he settled it on her opposite hip. She rested her forehead against his chest; the intimacy of it, paired with the trust, staggered him, almost interrupting the flame that had been ignited within him. Yet, as her hands slipped to his sides, it returned again, brighter than ever.

He wanted her. He wanted her to want him. And he burned, burned, _burned._

She stretched on tiptoe to kiss him but became unbalanced. As he teetered, he reached to steady her and helped her back onto her feet. “You’re too tall,” she whispered, half-laughing. Silver normally would have responded, reminding her just how _short_ she was, but he was far down a path. Lyra grabbed his hand and led him to his counter, where she clambered onto it. Their faces were almost even now, and she grinned at him. She pulled him in and pressed a kiss to each cheek before kissing him on the lips, wrapping her arms around him. He kissed back, hard, and he felt her mouth twitching with a smile.

He wanted her. He wanted her to want him. And he burned, burned, _burned._

He didn’t know how long he spent with her like that, his hands planted outside her thighs, her hands tangling into his hair. She pressed as close she could, held him as close as she dared, and he felt so _wanted._ Oh _fuck,_ he wanted her closer. As she parted to breathe, he wrapped his arms around her and pulled her close, her chest pressed to his, her legs dangling outside his. She squeaked again, but pressed back to him, her mouth soft and giving. They stayed like this for a period of time indeterminate, her hands roaming from his face to his neck to his back and his chest.

God, he burned.

This time, Silver broke the kiss and rested his forehead to her shoulder, gasping. “I can’t believe it,” he murmured to her. “I can’t believe this.”

She giggled breathlessly, the sound against his ear. Lyra embraced him, her arms linking around his back chastely. He her head rested against his open shoulder in turn, the smile apparent in her voice as she said, “I didn’t even get my purse off my shoulder before you pulled me in here.”

He reached and slid the strap off her shoulder and set it aside, next to her hip. “There you go,” Silver said, half-laughing. “How uncouth of me.”

“Absolute rapscallion, you are,” she said, speaking in English and faking a posh accent. She turned her head to the side and kissed his temple. “I like that, though,” she said, slipping back to Italian.

He grinned, a Cheshire cat’s grin that threatened to split his face. As he moved, Lyra shifted easily with him; she was either quite light or incredibly eager to touch as much of him as possible.  Silver lifted his head and stepped away from the counter, giving her room to hop down. As she landed, she was back to gazing up at him. “I’ve been thinking about this since last night. All I’ve wanted to do today is just…be with you,” she said, reaching for his hands and easily snagging them. “If that doesn’t freak you out.”

“It doesn’t. Not even remotely.” He lifted their clasped hands and kissed both of hers, earning a blush and a smile. “I wanted this last night.”

“I know,” she murmured. She released his hands and rested them against his chest. “I wanted it, too. But…I didn’t know how to go about it. I was so nervous this morning. I’ve never really been that physical with anyone, you know? I didn’t know how to progress to it, how to start it, how to…anything.”

He almost laughed, but he saw the genuine distress flickering in her features at that. Silver reached out, tracing his fingers along her hairline. “Hey,” he said, catching her attention. “It…it scares me too. But it’s, uh. It’s good. And I think I’ll worry less now.”

Her eyes flick upward. “You seemed to be really comfortable with this. I’m surprised that you were scared.”

_I’m absolutely petrified, especially the more you get to know about me, but I don’t know that I could turn away now,_ he thought, but he couldn’t say it. Instead, he just smoothed the hair from her forehead and smiled. “Yeah, I know. I look tough as nails. No feelings allowed here.”

She playfully swatted his arm. “People without feelings aren’t allowed to touch me.”

“Too late. I already touched you, and I’m touching you right now,” Silver said, his tone sinister as he messed up her hair.

Lyra scoffed and swatted his hands away. “You’re being a dork _and_ a liar.” In spite of this, she smiled at him, and, unable to help himself, he smiled back.

They ended up on the couch, sitting across from each other, feet and legs in a tangle in the center. Silver had turned on a new wave playlist, and they sat in silence for a while, just enjoying each other’s company. A breeze wafted through the apartment, and he watched Lyra out of the corner of his eye. Her toe was tapping in time to the pulse of a song in a darker key, her hair fluttering.

He watched her, and his earlier unease was returning. She’d been so gentle and sweet with him, when he had talked about his struggles after leaving home earlier. It hadn’t changed her attitude toward him. But loss of faith wasn’t something that would phase another “bad” Catholic. What happened when she knew of worse things, of his past rife with morally reprehensible actions and moments? _She has the tip of the iceberg right now. I’m afraid for her to come further in, to see deeper,_ he thought.

She looked over at him and grinned. He smiled back, but worry filled his gut. What happened if her eyes wouldn’t crinkle at him when she smiled? What happened if she didn’t want to spend hours with him? Silver wasn’t sure that he could handle that.

He reminded himself to enjoy the present, as he seemed to always do when with her. Everything in life was fleeting and transient, but the feeling he had with her was something close to happy. As Lyra looked over again, he reached out and took her hand. She gave him a wink and rested her head against the back of the couch.

He looked away for no more than a second when he heard Lyra say, “You know, these two days have made me so happy. I hope you’re happy, too.”

Silver rubbed his thumb over the back of her hand. After a moment, he murmured, “Sure.”

“Take a nap with me,” she murmured. “Sun’s warm. The breeze is nice. I’m happy.”

“You’ll catch the breeze better in my room,” he muttered. “Plus I just washed the sheets.”

She lifted her head at the same time Silver realized what he said. “Are…you asking me to go sleep with you? In your bed?”

Flustered, Silver sat up and planted his feet on the floor. “As in literal sleep! As in snoring and drooling and being unconscious! I don’t even have to be there.” he blustered.

Lyra laughed. “Oh my God. I got it. You just…caught me off guard a little.” She stood and moved toward his bedroom. “I won’t say no to that. And if you come in I’m telling you _right now_ I am sleeping. You are not gonna start kissing all over me.”

Silver’s face burned. “You know how you say I’m the worst? I think you’re the worst. This is emotional terrorism. Do you really think I’d do that?”

“Says the guy who says he doesn’t have emotions,” she said, yawning. She stretched, showing an inch of skin between the hem of her top and the waist of her shorts. “I’m just teasing you a bit. I’m sorry if I hit a nerve.”

He sighed and watched her walk into his room. “I’m not following her in there,” he mumbled to himself. Silver drummed his fingers and tried to get comfortable again, but the flame in his chest was building again. He scoffed and tried to ignore it, but it was becoming unbearable. No more than thirty seconds later, he scoffed and stood up to follow her. God, he was burning for her.

-

**Present Day**

Lyra was already half asleep in Silver’s bed. The sheets, charcoal gray, smelled good, half clean and half Silver-like, and she buried her face in them the minute she laid down. It wasn’t long after she laid down and began to drift that she felt the mattress shift. “Nice of you to show up,” she mumbled.

“Couldn’t stay away.” His voice was close, but comfortingly so.

She smiled and closed her eyes again. “I don’t want you to.”

After a moment, he said, “Okay.”

Lyra wiggled one shoulder. “Come closer.”

She felt him wriggle closer to her. Unsatisfied with his closeness—or lack thereof—she inched back, until she felt body heat. “Remember how I fell asleep on you?” she mumbled. “It was so comfy.”

Silver snorted; the gust of his breath on the back of her neck tickled. Her shoulder hunched at the sensation. “It was nice. But it also freaked me out and I couldn’t fall asleep.”

“Come fall asleep on me,” she said to him. “Come closer. I don’t want to be far from you.”

“Then sit up for a second.” Lyra opened her eyes, groggy, and did as she was told. She watched Silver settle, one arm outstretched, the other gracelessly waiting. Without hesitating, she slid in, her back at his chest, her neck resting on the outstretched arm. His other hooked over her waist, his hand resting against her stomach. She laid her arm over top of his; his body behind her was pleasantly warm; with the breeze flowing through it felt perfect. “I don’t want to be far from you, either,” he said, his voice close to her ear.

“If my hair’s in the way, I can braid it forward,” she murmured as he squeezed her closer.

“I’m kind of more above it. It’s fine.” After a moment, he added, “You’re always fine.”

She smiled and closed her eyes again. Lyra already felt herself drifting. “The more I learn about you, the more I care about you,” she whispered. “For all you like to act grumpy, you sure have this golden soul underneath it all.”

Silver stiffened at that. “You…why would you say that?”

“You’re so sweet. Smart. Talented. Funny. God, you make me laugh.” She opened one eye and glared back at him. “Are we napping, or are we talking?”

His face was red, his eyes bewildered. “I…”

She smiled and settled herself deeper into the crook of his body. His heart pounded wildly. Tighter became his grip on her, and slower became her heartrate as she began to drift off, tucked safely in Silver’s arm, in a quiet, forgotten corner of Venice.

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello, hello. Here is another update! I had a few free afternoons so I churned this out. I figured another sweet update before getting back into some heavier, darker stuff might be nice haha.
> 
> Also, they're...absolutely terrible about public PDA. Gotta go hide away to kiss, obviously.
> 
> Music this chapter:
> 
> Silver has a new wave playlist. I have one I made recently for driving/writing that may fall more under synthwave for the majority of it, but I feel like anything off here is appropriate "sitting on Silver's couch" vibe to it. https://open.spotify.com/user/macgillrose/playlist/1FKgyWnu7QS8ySmErMGHf2?si=Qx3h2H4HRVquh-4CD7fhRw


	13. Chapter 13

**Eleven Years Ago**

The red wine did nothing to take the edge off, to make Norma feel any better about what she had to tell her daughter. Outside, the sun was shining, and lilacs were blooming; their aroma wafted through the windows and served to heighten her anxiety about the situation. She pushed her hand through her hair and sighed shakily. She looked up from the kitchen table and into the dining room, where Lyra sat at the table.  Her daughter had dragged a pillow from the living room to set on a chair, allowing her to sit normally at the tall table to color. Crayons were sprayed across the mahogany wood, modern, prismatic chaos on antique furniture.

 _How do you tell a child her father isn’t going to come home anymore? How do you tell her you’re not going to be married to her father anymore?_ Norma thought, her mouth quivering. She downed the rest of the glass of wine. An old urge, the one to go outside and light a cigarette, gripped her. Norma swiped it aside and sighed.

How was Lyra going to handle it? The family therapist had recommended doing it with her soon-to-be-ex present, but when was that _fucker_ ever home? They had already filed. He was already slowly having his belongings removed from the house, men and women in sterile, crisp clothing coming every few days and taking his books, clothes, and other personal effects. Not that he had much here—though he had pressured Norma into buying the historical house in an expensive neighborhood, he’d barely spent more than four or five nights a month in it. “ _Someone_ has to work a job to afford this,” he’d spat at her.

It was the first thing that would go once Norma figured out what she wanted to do for Lyra and herself.

Norma sighed. _It’s for the best,_ she reminded herself, for the thousandth time. As much as she had wanted it to work, his job was always going to take priority. Anything _but_ his wife and daughter was going to be his priority; he’d made as much clear in counseling.

She swallowed and stood up. There was no point in putting it off any longer. Lyra wasn’t oblivious; she could sense her mother’s distress, her father’s pointed absence. Norma smoothed her hair and slid into the chair across from Lyra. She looked up as her mother entered and smiled, her front two teeth proudly missing. “Momma, look!” she said, turning the coloring book her way. It featured an eye-wateringly pink butterfly, a purple sky, and blue and orange flowers. “I’m staying inside the lines!”

“You are! Good work,” Norma said, smiling back. “But you can always color how you want.”

“It looks better if I stay in the lines,” Lyra huffed. She returned to coloring, and Norma felt her resolve waver. How could she disrupt this moment for bad news?

 _It can’t wait any longer. Her father will be officially moved out at the end of this week. He can’t guarantee he’ll even be back to talk with her about this,_ she thought, despairing. Her eyes burned with tears at the unfairness of what he was doing to their child. Norma sighed and pushed the crayons nearest her back toward Lyra. “Lyra,” she murmured. “Can we talk about something for a moment?”

Lyra set her crayons down and folded her hands comically businesslike in front of her. “I am _all_ ears,” she said, using a phrase Norma often used with her.

Unable to laugh at her daughter’s silliness, she sighed and rubbed at her cheek. “I wanted to talk to you about your dad and me,” she said. “I think you know that your dad hasn’t been home in weeks.”

Lyra shrugged. “Yeah.” She tugged at her pigtails. “People keep coming and taking his stuff. Did he die?”

Norma felt her eyebrows lift at her daughter’s morbidity. “Um, no, Lyra, he did _not_ die.”

“Oh, okay.” She cocked her head. “Where is he?”

Norma sighed and dragged her hand across her mouth. Lyra’s face was filled with curiosity. She didn’t seem sad or worried; did she _really_ want to worry her? But this conversation had to happen, and she eased forward. “He…is moving out,” she told Lyra. “He won’t be living here anymore.”

Lyra kept looking at her, the expression on her face unchanged. “Okay, Momma.”

 _Just say it already, Norma._ “He and I are…we’re not going to be married anymore,” she said, her mouth quivering as she said it. “Your father and I are getting divorced. That doesn’t mean we don’t love you. It isn’t your fault. We just—”

Lyra interrupted, “Are you going away like Daddy, too?”

Norma immediately scoffed. “Of course not. I would never leave you.”

Lyra blinked and then nodded. She sat up on her knees and reached across the table, patting her mother’s hand. Her eyes, dark as night, held no note of distress, no disbelief. She said, “Then it’s okay. I love you, Momma.” She settled back and picked up her crayons to resume coloring. Norma gazed at her, shocked. Her eyes were watering, her heart both swollen and broken.

It occurred to her, then, how much Lyra’s father was missing out on, how much fierce love and brightness and sweetness he’d never see, and how little he deserved it. Norma stood up, unable to continue the discussion, and said, “I love you, too, Lyra.” She returned to kitchen, positioned herself with her back to Lyra, and allowed the tears to flow. Whatever Norma decided, she knew Lyra would be just fine, and she didn’t know if that brought her relief or intensified the deep agony within her.

* * *

**Present Day**

There was no way Silver was going to fall asleep while Lyra was cuddled against him, the entire length of her body pressed to his. She was sound asleep, stirring from time to time to cuddle more deeply to Silver, but he barely dared move or breathe. _I can’t believe this is happening,_ he thought. He wondered if she could feel how hard his heart was pounding.

The last time she had fallen asleep on him, he’d barely dared to breathe, and this moment was no exception. She was so content with him, and it made his heart feel as though it was ready to burst.

Not only that, but it was as though she’d read his mind before she’d dozed off, addressing his concerns. Did Lyra think he was a good person? Lyra didn’t know enough about him to have evidence to back that up; he was soft for her, and it was easy to be kind. _You don’t have enough to go on to make such a judgment,_ Silver thought. For now, he buried his face into her hair and took a deep breath, catching the floral scent of her shampoo, and held her tighter. How sweet of her to believe that he wasn’t a complete disaster of a person.

In inhaling her scent and basking in the warmth of their body contact, Silver had finally calmed down enough to start dozing off. His eyelids were beginning to droop when Lyra stirred, clearly awake, and murmured, “Did you sleep at all?”

Silver wanted to laugh, but he just said, “No.”

She made a disappointed noise and guided his arm around her until she was as snug as she could be against him. “If your arm fell asleep, I’m sorry,” she said. The low, sleepy note in her voice thrilled him.

He rested his forehead against the crown of her head. “It isn’t. Your neck is on it. Your head would probably have made it like that.”

She chuckled; the rumble of it passed through Silver’s chest. “You wanna try to sleep?” she murmured to him. “I could cuddle you instead.”

“I don’t think I’d sleep like that, either,” he said, but the thought of her wrapped around him was certainly enticing. Lyra detached herself from him and rolled before sitting up. Her hair was a mess, the hem of her shirt riding up to show a strip of her stomach. She adjusted it before she turned to him. The expression on his face must have been concerning, for the sleepy, content look on her face turned to a frown. He sat up himself, asking, “Why that look?”

“I could just as easily ask why you look like that. You look really sad,” she told him. She edged closer, their knees nearly touching.

He rubbed at his face. Why couldn’t he hide his feelings better? “It’s nothing.”

“Silver.” Her voice was filled with warning, but the hand that wrapped itself about his was nothing but kind. “Hey. You can tell me,” she murmured, gripping his hand to reassure him.

Silver sighed and dropped the hand in front of his face. “I’m afraid,” he admitted, unable to meet her gaze. She didn’t respond, and he looked to see her watching him, waiting for him to elaborate. Silver sighed and pushed his hair out of his face. “I’m…so afraid, right now.”

“Of what?” she said, verbally prodding him. “Me?”

He took her other hand as reassurance. Sooner or later, he had to at least say what he’d been ruminating upon, even if he wasn’t ready to talk about the great bulk of his past. Nor was it in him to lie to her; she didn’t deserve that. “No,” he said, his voice barely more than a whisper. “I’m afraid of how I’ll look if you get to know me more.”

“Handsome?” she suggested, making his face burn and his ears prickle.

He laughed softly and tipped his head forward; their foreheads pressed together. “Let’s go with hot mess,” he said to her. “You…think highly of me right now. And I want it to stay that way.”

“Well then,” she pulled away from him and tugged his hand to get his attention. His gaze snapped to her as Lyra demanded, “Tell me, did you kill a guy?”

Silver’s eyebrows lifted. “Uh, what now?”

“Did you kill a guy or something? Because that’s what you’re acting like,” Lyra said, a slight scowl on her features. Her hair was a delightful mess.

He almost wanted to laugh, but her expression was so serious that Silver knew it was a bad idea. “No. I haven’t killed anything beyond bugs in my life,” he told her.

Her expression softened. “Have you assaulted anyone? Ruined anybody’s life?” Silver shook his head. “Okay, have you ever hurt a child?”

“What do I look like to you?” he demanded. “A fucking child puncher?”

“Of course not,” she said, and her voice and expression were earnest. She loosened her grip on his hands and smiled. “If it’s none of those things, I don’t think it could make me dislike you.”

His heart stammered at how gentle and trusting she was. She stretched and cranked her body sideways with the motion, and she said, “You had a rough go of things, as far as I can tell. If it wasn’t those things, then I’m not going to lose respect for you over it.”

As she settled down again, Silver’s heart ached. Her voice was so soothing, her words so earnest. _She would never hurt me,_ he realized, _not intentionally, not maliciously_. Unable to help himself, he linked his arms around her and drew her into a tight hug, burying his face in the crook of her shoulder.

She squeaked in surprise, her arms not quite coming around to hug him back. “What’s that about?” Lyra asked.

“Thank you,” was all he said.

He felt her sigh and settled into his embrace, her hands glancing over his sides as she reciprocated it. “Um, you’re welcome?” she responded, her voice laced with mirth.

Silver released her and sat back. Before he could open his mouth, he heard Lyra’s phone buzz on the nightstand. Her head whipped around, and she reached over to grab it. As she unlocked it and scrolled, she sighed. “Hey, you mind taking a side trip with me? Adrianna is craving gorgonzola cheese. From the grocery store she goes to.”

“Is it a special brand?” Silver asked as she eased off his bed.

“Nope! I’ve definitely seen it elsewhere, but I think her pregnant lady senses would know if I bought it elsewhere. She’s insisting it comes from _that_ grocery store,” she said. Silver followed her off the bed. Lyra paused at the door, sighing. “How bad does my hair look?”

His mouth quirked. “It’s a disaster, but it works.”

“Mean,” she said, but she quickly combed her fingers through it, smoothing out some of the more errant waves and curls. “But I know. I got my mother’s disaster hair instead of my father’s straight hair.”

They exited his apartment and walked toward the grocery store. Silver cleared his throat. “So…I have a question for you.”

She glanced at him. “Shoot.”

“What are things like with your dad now?” he asked her. He’d grown curious from her earlier remarks about her father, as well as the memory of Giovanni hanging above his head.

Lyra sighed. It was oddly quiet on the streets; there were fewer tourists than Silver was used to seeing, and it made Lyra’s marked silence all the more oppressive. Before he could press her further, she said, “Things…with him will never change. He’s the same as always. But, I guess my feelings kind of changed about it as I got older. I mean, he’s no Giovanni, but he’s not someone I’d really consider a parent.”

He glanced sidelong at her. “How do you mean that your feelings changed?”

“When I was a kid, the people I was around most were my mom and you. You also only had one parent. Kris’s parents were also divorced, and she lived with her mom,” she said. “I didn’t really think twice about how abnormal it was to just…not have one parent absent like that. After you were gone and I hung out with other people more, I kind of came to realize my situation was abnormal and became resentful of my dad.”

Silver felt a twinge of sadness. “Oh.”

She shrugged. “It is what it is. I just…expected that he’d come to things from time to time. And take some interest in me. I guess I should count myself lucky I had Mom through all of that shit,” she said, laughing coldly.

Silver frowned at the bitterness in her tone. Lyra sighed and pushed her hair out of her face. “He…likes to tell people about how I play piano so well, but, uh, he hasn’t ever heard me play seriously. He came to one recital when I was fourteen. It was a Christmas one. I played an absolutely cheesy rendition of ‘Let it Snow’ and a Mozart that I flubbed. He didn’t compliment me or anything after. We had this super awkward dinner at a Thai restaurant, and I’ve never liked Thai food,” she said. “I just think he wants to sound more interested in my life than he is.”

“You have a lot of people that care about you, though,” Silver hedged. “Is his approval worth anything?”

She patted his shoulder. “Oh, definitely not. Wanna know the icing on the shit cake here? He missed my graduation entirely. He sent a card with a substantial check in it. I took about half of that to be spending money for here and put the rest in savings for college, but holy shit,” she said, laughing dryly. “I didn’t know until after he didn’t come. I went to a big high school, and there was a limit of three family members or friends for students. So I invited my mom, my piano teacher, and my dad, when I had really wanted to invite my mom’s husband to attend with her. Then my dad never showed up. Mom was _so_ pissed,” she said.

“Well, now _I’m_ pissed,” Silver said, feeling oddly protective over Lyra at that moment.

She gave a wry smile. “We had my graduation party that day, where there was no booze. Immediately after the last of my friends went home, Mom opened a huge bottle of wine and was like ‘Lyra, I will look the other way if you need to drink, too.’ She drank like half of it in one night. I…had a pity sip and immediately regretted it. It was the driest wine known to man, I think,” she said, laughing.

Though she was laughing, Silver looked at her, at the fresh pain that flashed across her face. She wiped her hand across her mouth and then sighed. “I think if I’d been home working over the summer instead of being here with my aunt and with you, I’d have spent a lot of the summer extremely bitter. Truth is, I feel worse for my mother. She feels so responsible for how uninterested my dad is in me.”

“He’s a fucking idiot to not have any interest in you. What the hell?” Silver said.

Lyra glanced at him. “You think so? Honestly the whole thing was a huge blow to my self-esteem. Being here has been a good distraction from that, but once I go home, I think I’ll be thinking about it a lot again.”

Silver nodded. He dodged an oncoming group of tourists, all rather sedate in the heat. “You know,” he started, catching Lyra’s attention, “you should just cut him out entirely.”

“I would, but I wonder if I’d lose access to that side of my family that way. My relationship with my grandparents kind of doesn’t exist unless I’m there and spending time with them in person,” Lyra fretted.

He sought her hand with his; he gripped it and gave it a reassuring squeeze. “I mean, they have to know he isn’t a good dad to you. I can’t imagine it would kill any relationship with your grandparents.”

Lyra squeezed his hand back. After a moment, she murmured, “I hope so.”

“If it kills your relationship with them, too, I don’t know they’re worth it, either,” Silver said. Lyra looked up at him as he continued, grimly, “If I’ve learned anything about family over the years, it’s that it doesn’t mean shit if they don’t _act_ like family. I rarely call Giovanni my father. He did so many horrible things to me. The people in my life who’ve done the most for me are people who ultimately chose me, and people I’ve chosen in turn.”

They walked in silence for a while, the mood heavy. Silver didn’t regret asking her the question; she was often so lighthearted and nonchalant, most likely by her own choice. He didn’t doubt that she was a person whose base mood was content, but to know she struggled, too, made him feel less alone. “It’s like when people say blood is thicker than water,” Lyra said, interrupting.  She was speaking in English, likely to emphasize the aphorism. “It’s not the full saying. It’s like…the blood of the covenant is thicker than the water of the womb. Meaning the bonds you choose can be stronger than the ones you’re born into.”

“Yeah,” Silver responded. “I’ve read about that one before.”

“I’m sure you have,” she said, knocking her hip into his. “I think you’ve read everything under the sun.”

“Absolutely. If it’s written down, I have read it, thought about it, and decided it was shit,” he responded dryly.

She laughed at that, and their conversation swung back around into lighter conversation as they walked. Lyra showed him the way to the grocery store, pausing so that they could pet a bright orange cat in one the alleyways, and made it to the store. It was largely deserted, save for an attendant about his age, sitting at the counter and scrolling through his phone.

“Gorgonzola cheese for Adrianna,” Lyra announced to no one in particular. “What a craving.”

They searched around the store for the cheese. Silver noticed cats on top of many of the shelves, watching him with baleful green eyes. As Lyra picked up a block, weighing it in her hand as though deciding whether to throw it, the door at the front of the store jangled open. “You gotta sell me smokes, man,” said a whiny, teenaged voice that was oddly familiar. “The corner store cracked down, and my dad refuses to buy them for me.”

“He’s right to do so, Andrea. You’re like, twelve,” said another voice—perhaps the attendant?

“Hey, fuck you, I just turned fifteen!” the boy argued back.

Lyra seemed to bristle. “Such great timing,” she said, her teeth gritted. “Wait back here with me for a bit.”

“Why?” Silver said. She seemed obviously familiar with that voice.

“So, I have a bit of a story for you,” she said, a wry smile cracking your face. She now seemed to be truly contemplating throwing the cheese, bouncing it in her hand with a fervent energy. “I found you because I overheard that guy talking about you to that same attendant. You helped a girl get out of an uncomfortable situation with him one day while you were playing. He was really weird with me, later, so it wasn’t like a one-off thing for him, I guess.”

Silver thought back and remembered. A blonde girl, with a pug nose and green eyes, unable to shake off a teenaged boy that was far too insistent. Annoyed by the distraction it was providing and disgusted by the boy’s inability to take no for an answer, he’d stopped playing and stepped in, pretending to be the girl’s brother. “ _Ohhhh._ Yeah. That guy,” he said. He frowned. “Wait a second. Did you just…hear about me off happenstance? And how did you know it was me? I don’t think I announced my legal name to that guy or anything.”

Lyra looked as though she had choked, though she wasn’t eating anything. She swallowed, her throat moving quite visibly, and responded, “That’s…I’ll tell you about it later, okay?”

Perplexed, Silver nodded. “Okay.”

The conversation up front continued for a while, the attendant and Andrea, or so the teenager was called, going back and forth for a while. Lyra sighed. “I suppose we’re gonna have to brave it.”

“Yup,” Silver responded. “Here. Let me ruin his day again.”

“Ruin his day?” she tried to clarify, but Silver was already on the move. She trotted after him to keep up.

At the front of the store, the bored attendant and the boy, Andrea, didn’t immediately notice him. The boy was practically leaning into the attendant’s face while attempting to convince him to sell him cigarettes. “You don’t need them,” the attendant said, not even looking up from his phone. “You’re too young for that.”

“But I want them!” he demanded.

Silver nudged Lyra forward. “Go pay for the cheese,” he muttered to her. She shot him a thumbs-up, a half-smirk nudging her features. _I’m a bad influence,_ he thought with a sigh. Before long she was going to be unable to smile genuinely.

As she approached the counter, the attendant took notice of her, but Andrea didn’t. The attendant’s eyes flicked to Silver, where a knowing look entered. Silver realized he knew of Silver already, and perhaps he was in on whatever con was about to take place. As Andrea sputtered, the attendant tucked his phone away and turned to Lyra. “Oh, hello. Just the gorgonzola today?” he said to her.

Andrea leaned back and took notice of Lyra, his eyes filling with hurt. Silver wondered what she said to him until Andrea’s eyes flicked past to Silver, where they began to bug out. His body stiffened and he peeled off the counter. Lyra, seemingly unrattled, set the cheese on the counter. “Yup! We—” she emphasized the pronoun hard, glancing at Silver with a smile that was rather sharklike “—were here to buy cheese.”

Silver stepped up to the counter as Andrea backed away, almost into a shelf of snacks. “What the hell? You two know each other?”

“Oh yeah,” Silver said. His arm snaked out to wrap around her, while Andrea’s expression soured further.

Lyra passed a handful of euros to the attendant as she added, “Oh, sure. I sleep in his bed sometimes.”

Silver’s face burned as Andrea sputtered angrily. Unable to say anything, he opened the door and stomped out, his feet slapping the cobble outside the door obnoxiously. The attendant handed Lyra back her change, his expression unwavering. “I don’t think Andrea will get over that one anytime soon,” he said to her, glancing past to Silver.

Lyra nodded, freeing herself from Silver’s hold temporarily to grab the change and tuck it away in her purse. “I sure hope so. Teaches him for being a creep.”

“I doubt it’ll wean him off cigarettes,” the attendant sighed. He pulled his phone back out and began scrolling again. “Regardless, it’s noisy when he comes in. Thanks.” His body language told Silver he didn’t want any more interaction, and he nudged Lyra into leaving.

As they left, Silver turned to Lyra. “Now, this is going to be ironic and will sound absolutely like a double-standard, but you really have to tell me how you found me.”

“Oh, I will. Let’s drop off this cheese first,” she said, half-laughing nervously. “Yeah, let’s go do that.”

Silver paused as she took off toward her aunt’s apartment. There was an expression on her face that made him nervous, something that told him she was worried what he would think about whatever she had to say. What did she have to tell him? Was this how she felt, waiting for him to become comfortable with the things he intended to tell her?

 _I’ll tell her something tonight, after she tells me about how she found me,_ he decided. Silver couldn’t believe it hadn’t even occurred to him that there was something more than a simple, fateful meeting.

Regardless, he now had to know.

* * *

**Six Years Ago**

Norma sat at the kitchen table, one hand pressed flat to her ear, the other cupping her cell phone as close to her ear as she could manage. Her biweekly phone call with her sister, Adrianna, was being loudly punctuated by a loud, vocal squabble between Lyra and Silver, who were playing a video game in the living room.

“—all moved in now; the shop will need some setting up, though,” Adrianna was saying, “but that’ll probably wait ‘til after—”

She heard a loud “ow!” from Silver and looked out the doorway to see the young boy rubbing his forehead. Typical summer afternoon. Norma decided to cross that bridge after the phone call; she stood up and closed the door between the kitchen the living room, muffling some of the noise.

Norma sighed and settled back at the table. “Adrianna, do repeat that,” she said, rubbing at her forehead. “My child and her friend are noisy.”

“Sounds like a fun household,” Adrianna retorted, her voice buoyant. “I was just saying we moved into Mama and Papa’s old shop, finally. Our uncle took months to move out of the apartment, and the shop’s been sitting closed. Except opening it again will have to wait until after my wedding.”

“Your elopement,” Norma corrected. “Wedding implies a ceremony and flowers and a white dress.”

Adrianna chuckled, the sound dark. “Oh, our parents would be furious.”

They talked about the plans for a while, including Adrianna’s impending honeymoon, when the conversation turned back to Norma. She heard a thump in the living room, but the voices weren’t as loud now. “So, Lyra’s birthday is in…five days,” Adrianna said.

Norma smiled. “She’s just about twelve. She’s quite excited. We’re having a big party for her in the park next week. All her friends in the neighborhood and from school will be coming. She won’t stop talking about it.”

“Oh, how fun,” Adrianna replied. After a moment, she asked, hesitantly, “Are you…inviting her father?”

“I have. He hasn’t given a committed answer yet,” Norma responded. The living room was now quiet; she was afraid of what she’d walk out to. On top of that, the thought of her ex-husband’s behavior regarding their daughter had further lowered her mood. “I haven’t said anything to Lyra about it. I don’t know how to tell her he can’t commit to seeing his daughter on her birthday.”

“You’ve said she isn’t always bothered by her father’s behavior. See how she responds when the time comes,” Adrianna said.

Sometime later, as their conversation came to a close, Norma, flipped her phone shut and prepared herself to enter the living room. As she opened, the door, she started to say, “Lyra, Silver, I don’t know what you’re doing—”

She froze, finding them playing quietly again. They sat, each propped against an inordinate number of pillows, with their bodies facing each other, but their head and torsos twisted toward the screen. Norma took a step closer to see that their legs were in a tangle in the middle of the couch. Lyra glanced over her shoulder. “Hi, Mom,” she said, “sorry about the noise earlier. “Silver called me names, so I had to whack him and remind him not to do that.”

“Not in my face, you didn’t,” Silver said, but his tone wasn’t as lethal as he wanted it to be.

Norma stood, unsure of how to address the situation now. She put her hands on her hips before settling on, “You’re both too old to be hitting each other when the other says something you don’t like.”

“It’s okay. I got her back in the shoulder. We’re cool now,” Silver responded.

Norma clapped a hand to her face. “I don’t know what I expected,” she grumbled around her hand.

She left them to play their game and returned to the kitchen, where a novel she had been reading sat open and forgotten by Adrianna’s call. Norma resumed reading and heard laughter and chatter return. _Two peas in a pod,_ she thought, unable to help the smile that touched her lips. At the end of the next chapter, she lifted her head to check on Silver and Lyra. They’d paused their game and were sitting close together, almost knee-to-knee, as they whispered back and forth about something conspiratorially.

Did Lyra have to know that Norma had asked her father to come to the party? Did she need to know that he’d given a wishy-washy response once again? Lyra seemed happiest among friends, among people who actually cared about her and enjoyed her presence. She looked away and returned to reading her book. Lyra had loving, sweet friends, a mother who would do anything for her. She had so much else, beyond a father.

Norma would let her daughter find comfort and ease in her mother, in neighbors, in friends. She’d pestered Silver for weeks until he formally agreed to come; the joy in her face wasn’t worth soiling with her father’s flakiness. _I’m glad they have each other,_ she thought to herself as she returned to her book, finding her place. _In spite of everything, they’re happy friends together. All I want for them is to be happy in life._

She flipped the page, and they returned to their game, a silent decision made.

* * *

**Present Day**

They had been wrangled into dinner. Lyra’s uncle, the bastard, wanted the gorgonzola for a pasta recipe. Partly amused and partly annoyed, Lyra sat at dinner while her aunt, once again, pestered Silver with questions. Her uncle was silent, but there was a glint of amusement in his eye as Adrianna demanded he take seconds.

Silver’s eyes flashed to Lyra, as if to bail him out, but she lifted her hands, as if to say, “What am I supposed to do?”

“You’re welcome for dinner anytime, Silver,” Adrianna said, patting his arm once he finally finished eating. “We enjoy cooking in this household. Especially for such an _important_ guest. Wouldn’t you call him a _very_ important guest, Lyra.”

Lyra shot her aunt a warning glare. “Yup, I sure would.”

“I…uh. Thanks,” he responded, cagily. Lyra had to resist the urge to laugh.

After dinner, Lyra helped her uncle clear dishes, but then he shooed her away when it was time to wash. “Get him out of the kitchen. He looks like a caged animal,” her uncle said, glancing back at Adrianna, who was still chatting to him with a salacious grin. “I’ll take care of dishes.”

“Thank you,” she whispered back. She made some excuse for Silver and tugged him through the living room, the hallway, and into her room, before shutting the door behind her.

She was aware of how tiny the space was, now that there was another person there.  She felt like there were few places she could go without being an arm’s length or less away from him. He settled on the twin bed, his face full of questions. “So...is she…always like that? Or am I special?”

“She’s incorrigible with customers. She absolutely knows something’s going on between us, and that just brings out that side of her all that much more,” Lyra responded, rubbing at her forehead. “You look so frazzled. I really do apologize for her.”

He shrugged. “She reminds me of how your mom was. Always fretting about me. Offering food. Offering space. It runs in your family,” he said to her.

She sat down beside him. Silence yawned between them, and Lyra thought of all the things that were unsaid, the things that needed to be discussed. Before he could press her, she said, “Since I was twelve, the sight of long red hair has haunted me. I would see someone in black, with red hair, and would wonder if it was you. Before I could investigate, the person would turn and be the wrong age, the wrong gender, the wrong look. Or they’d walk away completely. When they walked away without me knowing, it bothered me for weeks, wondering if I had missed you. And that’s what happened to me here, in Venice.”

He looked at her, and she met his gaze, feeling solemn. “It wasn’t long after I got here that it happened, where I saw that. Red hair over black shoulders. I’m pretty sure, looking back, it was you, but you moved away from me so fast and in the wrong direction. I missed you. About a week later, I was in that corner store when Andrea ran his mouth about a redheaded guy helping a girl. I was in that space still. I was haunted by the red hair I couldn’t investigate. So I went where it happened later that day, and I ran into you there.”

Silence stretched between them before Silver eased backwards, leaning on his elbows as he looked  at her. There was a strange look in his eyes, one that Lyra wasn’t sure that she liked. After a moment, he said, “I haunted you.”

“You don’t have to put it like that,” Lyra said, feeling panic settle in. Talking quickly, she added, “I…you were the big question in my life. I didn’t know where you went. Or what happened. And the thought of getting answers, of being able to be near you again, was something that never left me.”

The strange look dissolved to sadness. That look of pity, of sorrow, stabbed her through the gut, and her face began to burn in an unpleasant way. “I didn’t mean to put you through that.”

“It isn’t your fault,” she murmured. Her eyes were stinging with the threat of tears, but she tried to blink it away. “It was never your fault. I just…I never truly moved on from it, and that’s my fault.”

She turned away from him and covered her face, knowing she was going to cry. Lyra took a deep breath and said, “I’m sorry. It’s pathetic, isn’t it?”

She felt him sit up and inch to her. His arm hooked her around the waist and pulled her to his side, where he held her to him. He pressed a kiss to her temple, and Lyra closed her eyes. For a while, they sat quietly, his hand rubbing circles on her back, Lyra’s heart trying to escape through her throat as she struggled to calm down. The street sounds, the loud tourists and the slosh of water, graced her ears and helped her to slow down, as did Silver’s gentle touch. What felt like an eternity later, Silver said, “It’s not pathetic. I feel more normal now.”

“Yeah?” Lyra said, her throat thick.

“I…think I thought about you almost every day after Giovanni made us leave,” he said. Lyra’s eyes flicked open, and she gazed at her thighs as Silver spoke. “I dreamed about running away a lot. Travelling to America, walking to your front door. But I’d always wake up before you answered it. And I hated it. I hated feeling hung up on something I thought I’d never have again,” he said.

Lyra buried her face in his shoulder. Her tears were coming again, but he didn’t need to know that. “I know you said you’d missed me a lot.”

“I wanted so badly to message you, you know that? I wanted to make a Facebook profile and talk to you again, but I didn’t want you to know what I’d gotten myself into. What I’d fallen into to survive,” he said, his voice wavering. “I’m a real bastard.”

“What were you doing, Silver?” she asked. “Will you tell me?”

She felt his chin rest on top of her head, his other arm pulling her as he could. Lyra shifted and linked her arms around his neck to draw even closer to him. “Yeah,” he said, the low buzz of his voice evident where her ear laid. Long silence stretched before he began to talk again. The way he talked was slow, sterile, as though recounting a memoir he once read. Yet, his body was shaking, a faint tremble that started in his jaw and oozed down his skin, like a toxic spill flowing down a river. “Florence is a city I will never return to. Even thinking about it makes my skin crawl.”

Lyra adjusted the way she sat and coaxed him to lean into her. He did just that, one arm braced behind her to support himself. “What happened there?” she asked, her tone feathered.

He sighed shakily. “I was a fucking lowlife. I was a…a real bastard,” he said, and his voice cracked. “I did some things that weren’t that bad. I washed dishes at a restaurant. I was a shop clerk. I busked. I delivered newspapers. I could’ve survived on that while moving from youth hostel to youth hostel and trying to keep up with my education online. But I wanted more. There was a hole in me I wanted to fill, the one that Giovanni tore into me.”

Lyra stared at the floor, at the creaky floorboards, as Silver finally said, “I was a thief. I stole. I stole anything that wasn’t bolted down, that wasn’t attached to a person. I stole food, clothes, phones, money. Alcohol. I drank myself fucking stupid every weekend night. I stole cigarettes. I wanted what I couldn’t have, what I wasn’t allowed. I wanted other people to feel deprived. And I was never caught. I was too damned smart for my own good. I targeted stupid tourists and rich kids who didn’t fucking know any better.”

His body was almost shaking now; Lyra felt the muscles in his arm, harder than steel with tension. “I was this ugly, awful person. So when I decided to check in on you, I…couldn’t let you know me as I was. I hated myself even as I did it, but I just couldn’t fucking stop myself.”

Lyra felt something wet on her shoulder. She looked up, startled, and saw Silver crying. Tears were streaming freely from his eyes. His skin was blotchy, and the sight of it was enough to make her choke up. He wrapped his arms around her tightly, pulling her until she was half on his lap, her head tucked under his chin. “I was the worst, and I haven’t forgiven myself for it,” he said, his voice starting to crack. “I’ve always been this short-tempered jackass, but knowing I did that to other people, and took _pleasure_ in it? It makes me the worst.”

While she had a lot to process, Lyra knew one thing. She wrapped her arms around his neck until his head rested on her shoulder. “You’re not the worst,” she whispered to him. “I promise. I don’t think that of you.”

“You should,” he said. His shoulders hitched, and Lyra felt him sob silently. Her own face was quickly streaking with tears, and she buried her face into the crook of his neck. “Please just hate me. You should hate me.”

“Never,” she told him. “Never, never, never.”

“S-stupid,” he mumbled, but he said nothing more. He held her close as she soothed him, smoothing his hair, rubbing his back. Lyra found herself calming down as she stroked hair from his forehead and combed her fingers through it. His body slowly stilled, and he leaned into her care. “I’m sorry,” he murmured to her.

“Don’t be,” she whispered to him.

“I made you cry. I cried. I’m sorry,” he repeated.

“It’s alright,” she said.

Silver groaned and shifted. Lyra found herself on her back, pressed to the mattress as Silver laid his head on her chest. “Just…don’t leave me,” he said.

“I wouldn’t.” She smoothed his hair along his part.

“Okay.” They lay in her room, the sun now below the buildings. Lyra looked down to see Silver’s eyes closed, one arm linked around her waist as he laid there. Despite herself, she smiled and rubbed his back, between his shoulders. He sighed at her touch. “You’re too good of a person.”

Lyra used her nails lightly, and the tension in his face immediately eased away. “And you’re too hard on yourself. These aren’t things you do anymore, right?”

“Nope,” he said. “There’s one thing I want to steal now, though, if I could.”

She felt one eyebrow raise. “Oh really?” she said. She dropped her head and gazed at the ceiling. “Are you going to say something like happiness? Please don’t say that.”

Silver lifted his head to glare at her, an expression she caught in her peripheral vision. The blotchiness had faded, but it was still obvious he’d been crying. “No. And you ruined the moment. Thanks.”

“What…what moment?” Lyra said, unable to contain a chuckle. Silver’s head shifted with her laughter.

“I was going to say something sappy, but now you don’t get to hear it.” He settled his head down hard and rested his arm over her, as if to show his reluctance to speak.

She poked him. “Tell me and I’ll buy gelato next time we hang out.”

He propped himself up, one arm planted on one side of her body, his jaw propped in his hand in the other. His eyes, though watery and red, were soft. He looked down at her and said, “I’d steal you in a heartbeat.”

A flash of heat rolled through her at the sultry tone in his words. Lyra rolled her eyes and shoved him away. “Oh my God, Silver.”

“I’m serious,” he said, settling back to where he was. “Don’t make fun of me.”

“I feel like _you’re_ making fun of _me_ right now,” she retorted, flicking his hair.

“You’re deflecting,” Silver grumbled, poking her side.

They teased each other until Silver had calmed down. His face seemed clearer, his eyes only tinged with pink. Lyra was grateful that her skin tone tended to cover up some of the pinkness that entered her cheeks. She sat up with him and patted his shoulder. “Hey,” she said, wiping under her eyes, “Silver. You gave me a lot to think about, but I know I don’t see you any worse for it. You clearly have moved beyond that. You have a lot of heart, and you’ve grown past it. The person I’ve been talking to and spending all this time with doesn’t seem like someone who’d rob someone just because they’re in pain.”

He ruffled her hair. “Don’t say that to make me feel better.”

She pushed his hand away. “I’m not,” she said, her tone flat enough to discourage argument from him. “I have questions, I think. But I’m not going to ask them now. I just need you to know it doesn’t make me think less of who you are right now.”

“Thank you,” he said. He separated himself from her and glanced around the room. There was something mysterious in his eyes, and Lyra wondered if he was about to ask something broody or serious. His brow furrowed, and she leaned forward, worried about what he was about to say. Then, he said, in an oddly blithe tone, “Well, this is the first time I’ve been in your room here. Nice place.”

Lyra groaned and flopped back on the mattress, his observation particularly anticlimactic. Realizing the moment had passed, all Lyra could say was, “Sure is, Silver.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey y'all have another update. My "beta reader" seems to think it's okay, so I'm gonna present this to y'all. 
> 
> I introduced a third perspective: Lyra's mom! Dealing with the Pokemon trope of "my dad is never around" while also being a person whose dad was also never around ends up being personal/cathartic writing lemme tell you that. As such, this was a really dialogue-y chapter and am aware of any pacing issues it may have. (Also NOT enough banter omg).
> 
> Also! Silver cracked. He gave a general narrative. But it's a lot to unpack for sure. And there's still a lot Lyra doesn't know, and stuff that will probably be like pulling teeth to get at pffft. 
> 
> I have a crazy couple of days and move back to college next Saturday; classes start in two and a half weeks. I'm hoping I can get another update or two before the hammer comes down, because after that I know the glorious update times of this summer are gonna perish. Writing fic during the academic year is like writing two sentences every third week and then realizing I have a research proposal due lol.
> 
> That's enough yammering form me. Until next update, take care!
> 
> ~Mars


	14. Chapter 14

**Present Day**

The halfway point, between her apartment and his, seemed miles away today. After reassuring Silver and returning to joking around to settle him down, she started walking him home. Adrianna had a questioning look, as usual, as they left the apartment. The walk was silent and stretched long. Lyra had her pinky finger linked around his; a silent, almost deadly tension stretched in the air between them.

He was distant. He felt so distant. Lyra felt herself panicking; what was she supposed to say to him to make him look at her, to meet her gaze? _Look at me,_ she begged him silently.

In front of the bookstore, they stopped. Wordlessly, Silver pulled his pinky away. He pushed her hair off her forehead and pressed a kiss there. As he pulled away, she stretched up on tiptoes, cupped his face, and kissed him gently. He hunched further for her convenience, but other than his lips against her he wasn’t touching her.

Lyra rocked back onto her flat feet again and smiled at him, even though her stomach twisted with foreboding. “Don’t worry,” was all she said to him.

He gave a nod. There was something wrong in his eyes, a look that Lyra didn’t like. As he began to walk away, Silver simply said, “I’ll text you.”

“Right,” she said, but as he walked away, something told her that there was a chance he wouldn’t for a while.

She drifted home and to her room. Lyra settled onto her bed, feeling somehow hollowed out. There was a sting in her eyes again, but the tears wouldn’t quite come. Something was _wrong,_ and she wasn’t sure how to fix it. Never mind his past—why did she get the feeling that he was suddenly thousands of miles away again, separated by oceans and continents?

 _Was that too soon? Did I push him into it?_ Lyra fretted, burying her face in her pillow. _I did it all wrong, didn’t I?_

She feared that she wouldn’t see him in upcoming days, and she feared it was her own fault.

* * *

**Present Day**

Monday rolled around, and Silver knew that his listless drifting about at work was hardly due to that. From the time he came in the early evening until just before midnight, he felt like a ship, floating along without a crew and torn sails. For the first time since his early days at the café, he managed to drop an order he was carrying out to customers. He’d blustered through apologies to the kind, if somewhat rowdy, table and gave them a discount on their bill, but it had been the most embarrassing thing he had done at work.

It must have been apparent to others that he wasn’t quite himself, dropping orders aside. His coworkers kept commenting that he “looked tired” or insinuated that his weekend “perhaps wasn’t so good?” The cook went so far as to ask him point-blank, “Are you a zombie today?”

“Fuck no,” he’d responded, earning a chuckle from the older man, but Silver wondered how true that was.

Yesterday, after he’d left Lyra’s and returned home, he’d laid awake, sleepless, for hours. How long had it been since he’d cried? How long had it been since he’d cried _in another person’s presence?_ Even worse, he couldn’t remember the last time someone had comforted him while he cried? Something about the process made him feel raw, exposed, vulnerable—it felt like a mistake. He had wanted to tell her about it in small bits and pieces. The deluge of words felt like he’d thrown a rock in Lyra’s face; the hurt and worry in her eyes had been enough to cut through him.

Lyra had assured him, over and over again in that gentle way of hers, that it was fine. That it was okay to be sad. That it didn’t affect their friendship—or whatever it was they were. But was it really? Was it _really_ fine? It had kept him awake until the sun rose, and he only managed to crawl out of bed an hour before work started. He texted Lyra before he fell asleep, informing her that he was “busy,” but the truth was he felt nothing short of frazzled.

His heart was a mess.

At midnight, Proton swung into the building. Silver had nearly forgotten about Saturday’s antics until Proton plopped onto the stool across the counter from him, jaw propped in his jaw. “Gianni! Fall off any more piers? Get anyone else wet?” he greeted him, a crocodilian grin splitting his face. When Silver didn’t answer, busy drying off a freshly-washed mug, Proton banged his fist hard on the counter. “ _Ehi_ , _coglione!_ ”

Silver nearly dropped the mug. He set it on the counter, hard, and propped his fist on his hip. “Jesus, what?” he demanded.

Proton scoffed, almost half-laughing at his response. “Kid, wow.” When Silver didn’t respond, he studied Silver’s face. “Hmm. Was the rest of your weekend perhaps not as much of a cakewalk?”

“What do you care? How often do you tell me you ‘feel nothing?’” Silver growled, putting the phrase in air quotes.

Proton whistled. “Jilted? Perhaps she was into me instead of you, but she was playing hard to get with me as to not hurt your feelings.”

“ _Proton._ ” There was a lethal edge to Silver’s voice that wiped the smile right off Proton’s face. “Is everything just a joke to you?” he asked, lowering his voice.

Proton shrugged. “You know what kind of person I am, Silver. Not sure why you still get so ruffled by it all. It’s like you have no sense of humor.”

Silver picked up a knife, still damp from the dishwasher, and wiped it down. He pointed it at Proton. “Also, you need to not talk to her like that. Ever again.”

“Ballsy,” Proton said, his tone oddly appreciative. He leaned over the counter; the café was dead at this time of night, usually picking up again once bars began to close closer to 3 in the morning. “I have no interest in her. I was hoping to goad you into making your move, but I’m getting the feeling you didn’t play your cards right.”

Silver sighed. “I…played them too right. She knows things she shouldn’t now.”

Proton’s eyebrows raised. He slid off the stool and dusted off his pants, a calculative look sweeping over his face. A moment later, he loudly announced, “Come on, kid, time for a smoke break.”

Scoffing, Silver retorted, “Smoke break? I don’t—”

Proton shot him a reproachful look. In a lower voice, he said, “Just get out of here for two seconds. The place isn’t going to burn to the ground if you step out with me for a minute.”

Now they were in the back alley, bathed in the orange of the industrial light at the back of the café. Across the way, a black and white cat sat on the crate, watching balefully as Proton lit a cigarette. “Sure you don’t want one?” he asked Silver, before taking the first puff.

“I don’t,” he said, but the smell made his skin crawl. He had mostly quit, but there was a box sitting in his nightstand at home for dire situations. Silver told himself he wouldn’t buy another after it was gone. “Tell me why you’re out here smoking in my damned face.”

Proton side-eyed him. “I’m going to give you life advice right now.”

Silver groaned. Receiving and listening to advice from Proton was like attempting to put out a housefire with jet fuel. “I’m gonna go dry dishes. We’re almost out of mugs up front.”

Proton shifted his body in front of the door. “No, that can wait. It’s dead. I want to tell you something.”

They eyed each other; Proton’s cold, greenish gaze was enough to make Silver back down. The older man sighed and sat himself on a crate outside the door. “We both know how I am. I don’t really love. I don’t really feel much for other people. Women are entertainment and diversions. Men are people get drunk with and talk about women with. You’re one of the only people I actively give a shit about, you know? You’re like my kid brother. My very soft, sensitive, kid brother that I took in because his father did wrong by both of us,” Proton said, his teeth flashing in the low light.

“Where are you going with this?” Silver said, pinching the bridge of his nose. Proton regularly pointed out how “sensitive” he was.

“Oh, I’m going places.” Proton took another drag of his cigarette before continuing, the haze of smoke around him giving him a strangely mythical look in the night. “You value people _as_ people, but you’re also a coward about how you interact with others. You’re emotional, but you don’t share emotions often. You’re thoughtful, but you don’t share thoughts beyond a surface level. You’re this ticking time bomb and I don’t think you even realize it. It’s no wonder the moment someone made you feel safe you just went and motormouthed through the whole damned thing.”

Silver sighed. “Thanks for the psychoanalysis.”

“Be sarcastic all you want, but you know it’s true. So fucking what that you shared things? Isn’t that something you _should_ want, anyway?” Proton said. Silver looked away, his cheeks burning with the suggestion.

He felt Proton reach out and pat his shoulder, the affection awkward. “That’s why you’re freaking out right now, isn’t it? It’s because she knows too much?”

“Y-yeah,” Silver responded, shifting away from Proton’s touch.

“Alright. Then tomorrow night, after you’re done, we go to the bars,” Proton declared. “We’re gonna drink. And you won’t refuse because I’m paying. Then the morning after, you’re going to get your shit together and talk to her like a person. You’ve actually been a delight at work lately. You smile at least once per shift now.”

Silver crossed his arms and scoffed. _Stop coming for me like this,_ he thought but didn’t have the guts to say. “I didn’t say I wasn’t talking to her.”

Proton laughed. He tapped the ash off the end of his cigarette and responded, “Whenever you freak out you withdraw. Let me guess. You just told her you were busy this morning and didn’t even go see her before work?”

Silver’s expression must have betrayed him. Proton clapped a hand on his shoulder and took one last drag of the cigarette before dropping it, mostly spent, on the ground and grinding it out. He picked up the butt and tossed it in the metal, unlined trashcan left outside for that purpose. Before he went back in, Proton asked, “How much did you even say?”

“I told her about my time in Florence. On…a surface level,” he admitted.

Proton’s eyebrows raised as he stepped through the door. “Your criminal ways are hardly the tip of the iceberg. Have you even told her what happened to your father? Or your mother and—”

Silver pulled the door shut behind Proton and sat in the quiet back alley for a while. The cat that had been watching his interaction with Proton slowly blinked at him, and as she wandered over Silver crouched to pet her. His heart was still a mess. His talk with Proton was anything but reassuring; he was no more motivated to talk to Lyra than before. On top of that, there was the insinuation that he hadn’t said enough? The thought of facing her again terrified him.

Plus, Proton’s ideas were, well, terrible. _Getting drunk after work on a worknight sounds like a bad idea, but I probably shouldn’t blow him off again. Especially if he’s paying,_ he thought with a sigh. He scratched the cat under her chin and then stood, wiping cat hair from his shirt and pants.

His heart was still a mess, and something told him drinking wasn’t about to help him with it.

* * *

 

**Present Day**

Monday and Tuesday slid by with the velocity of molasses in midwinter for Lyra. Silver texted her once on Monday morning, telling her he was busy and wishing her a good day. That first day, she decided to not let it bother her during the day and distracted herself with work, though she had spent the night prior uneasy. Her sleep was riddled with worried dreams. She took the day to work on jazz exercises and her Liszt repertoire. Everything she played, regardless of its quality, was marked with an air of melancholy, drifting through the shop like specters of old. She limited herself to checking her phone once an hour; it seemed as though everyone _but_ Silver was contacting her—her mother, her friends, future classmates, and even her former piano teacher. She answered them in bursts at the top of every hour and returned to playing. Drowned in etudes, in Mixolydian and blues scales, she focused on what she intended to be her livelihood.

As the day wore on, Adrianna noticed Lyra’s businesslike manner and blue-edged playing. No matter how much she prodded and pried, Lyra kept the conversation between Silver and her private. “Are you sure you don’t walk to talk about it?” Adrianna had asked, more than once.

“Not right now, but thank you,” she had responded several times, her patience increasingly being tried.

That night, she checked her phone to find messages from Ethan and Kris, as well as her mother. There were a few social media notifications as well. She swiped those aside until there was nothing. She opened an empty text, addressed it to Silver….and then closed it, deleting the draft. _No need to push,_ she told herself. After she’d thanked him and wished him a good day, he hadn’t responded. Double-texting was a sin, after all.

However, come the next morning, with no word from Silver, she grew deeply uneasy and melancholic. She was tempted to text him the minute she woke up with no notifications from him, but she decided to give him space. Lyra didn’t know what to do.

She showered, a long affair under what was likely the apartment’s entire supply of hot water. When she finished, she felt properly scalded, her hair hanging in damp curtains around her face. Lyra checked her phone again to no notifications. “What the fuck, Silver?” she muttered to herself. She dressed in capris and her yellow peasant blouse, tying it off at the waist to keep it from getting damp on the sink basin as she toweled and combed her hair.

Lyra made coffee and ate bread. She bluffed her way through a conversation with her aunt and uncle and retreated to the living room. Lyra had little interest in dragging the keyboard down into the shop this morning; the thought of navigating the narrow stairs with it, when her mood was growing increasingly foul. She played a chaotic, technique-riddled Brahms etude to warm up, its triplet patterns sounding disorderly and brusque instead of flexible and airy as she preferred it.  Lyra checked her phone for a third time; Kris asked if she would video chat with her and Ethan later, and a former bandmate from high school wanted to know if she was selling her trumpet. She responded yes to the former and a hard and confused “No. I have zero interest in selling it and am not sure why you’d ask?” to the latter, her resentment growing at the conversations she was having versus the one she wanted to have.

 _Is he blaming me again? For saying too much?_ Lyra thought. The bandmate responded with a “Oh, sorry, wrong person.” Kris responded with a string of heart emojis and asked Lyra if she would be up late. It took her a moment to realize Kris likely hadn’t even gone to bed yet; it was only nine-thirty in Venice, meaning it was close to three-thirty in the morning back home.

Lyra opened a text message draft to Silver and typed, “Did you forget about me?” She read over it, shook her head, and deleted it. She groaned and jammed her fingers on the keys of the keyboard in a melancholy G# minor chord.

Until lunch time, Lyra alternated between playing some of her broodier repertoire and tooling around with melodies in G# minor and its major cousin, B. She let her fingers dance around the modes. _I should write a piece in these keys,_ she thought to herself, falling into a pattern of dotted quarter notes. _It’d be something else to focus on._

Around noon, she made lunch and brought some down to her aunt and to Serena, who had just come into the shop to relieve her aunt, before doing some of the laundry piling up beside the washer. As she was finishing throwing towels, she checked her phone again, finding nothing from Silver but a notification from her newly set-up college email. Frustration peaking, she slammed the washer’s door shut.

The rest of the afternoon was spent trying to stave off frustration and keeping from sending a passive aggressive message. She didn’t want to harass him, but his silence was increasingly oppressive, saying far more than his “have a good day” yesterday did. Lyra took a long walk, winding through the sestieri. She avoided his building, steering clear of the turn and following the Grand Canal. However, she did not avoid wandering by other performers and buskers where Silver liked to play, but there was no sight of him. To her amusement, there was a juggler in garish clothing where Silver liked to play. _That must be Irwin,_ she thought. As she passed, she couldn’t help but toss a few euros in his jar–perhaps to spite Silver, perhaps because his performance was shameless.

After her walk, she checked her phone. No notifications at all. This time, she opened a draft so Silver, and simply typed, “Hi! I hope you’re okay!” to him. Feeling it wasn’t too aggressive or out of place to say, she hit send and tucked the phone back in her pocket.

Evening came. Dinner passed. Lyra felt her poker face was much stronger; neither Adrianna nor her uncle pressed her with any questions or looks as they ate. There was no word from Silver, and Lyra was ready to give up. She practiced for a while longer before returning to her room, her annoyance having faded into acceptance that whatever progress she’d made with him had likely been undone.

Around midnight, with the windows open and listening to a bittersweet pop album, her phone buzzed. She snatched it up to find Kris messaging her. _Sorry, are you still up?_ She’d sent. _It’s like midnight there or whatever, but I got off work and Ethan’s here. Wanna video-chat right now?_

Lyra texted back, _Sure._ She leaned over to her speaker and turned the song down, the bass and acoustic guitar becoming background noise. Moments later, Kris dialed her and Lyra accepted.

Her melancholy disappeared as Kris and Ethan appeared, crammed into the view together. They were at Kris’s house; the bright green tiles of the kitchen wall were a dead giveaway. Kris looked freshly showered, her dark hair hanging in a heavy curtain around her face, and Ethan was in his usual clothing, his hair held back by a backwards ballcap. “Hi!” they shouted almost simultaneously.

Lyra sat up and grinned, waving back at them. “Hey, you two. How are you?” she said.

“I worked for eight hours in the sun. Look at this! I sweated all of my sunscreen off!” Kris rolled her sleeve up to show her pale shoulder in comparison to her very pink bicep. “It’s bullshit! It was supposed to be sports sunscreen.”

“I don’t think she reapplied enough,” Ethan interjected, rolling his eyes. “Also, her bad for working in landscaping. She’s gonna be all wrinkly when she’s like 25 now.”

“Shut up!” Kris interjected, shoving him. The view on the screen jiggled, and Lyra couldn’t help but laugh.

They chatted about home; Ethan’s parents had adopted a new puppy. The street Kris lived on was torn up for construction and wasn’t well-cleared; several people had punctured their tires on nails and sharp debris in the road. There was a curfew for anyone under 18 that was temporarily in place because of teenagers that had robbed the corner store Lyra often bought ice cream from growing up. “Thank God you’re not here. We wouldn’t be able to go do anything after like 9 pm with you,” Kris remarked.

“I’m sorry I’m a fetus,” Lyra apologized with a lopsided grin.

She shook her head melodramatically. “Damn you for being born in August.”

Lyra shrugged. “Say what you will, but I’ll be able to drink here legally in like five weeks so…guess who’s gonna do that before they come home?”

“Your aunt, after she gives birth?” Ethan suggested helpfully.

She scowled. “You two don’t get to drink legally in the States. I win this round.”

They argued back and forth for a bit before Ethan cleared his throat. “So, Lyra, is Silver going to get in on this call? You promised us a video chat. I wanna see what he looks like now.”

She felt as though someone had kicked her in the stomach with the suggestion. In spite of the feeling, she shrugged, the motion casual. “As far as I know, he’s straight,” Lyra pointed out.

“Hey, I mean it as like a friendly thing. He was…an interesting looking kid,” Ethan hedged. “Rather androgynous. The one picture you sent with him in it? He had quite the hat on.”

Kris elbowed him. “You’re digging yourself a hole, thirsty. And that was Lyra’s hat.” She propped her jaw in her hand. Her blue eyes were piercing, even through video chat, as she asked Lyra, “I feel like I haven’t asked but…is he okay? He seemed super sad when we were kids.”

Lyra shrugged again. As diplomatically as she could, she responded, “Um, he went through a lot after he left the states.”

Kris sensed something in Lyra’s tone; she could tell by the slight lift of her eyebrows, the taut line of her mouth, but Kris brushed it aside, sensing Lyra’s discomfort with the topic. She changed the subject, asking, “So, since you can _legally_ get drunk and are _doing so_ without us, are you going to get super drunk on your birthday?”

They chatted well into the night. Before her aunt and uncle went to bed, Lyra took Ethan and Kris on a “tour” of the apartment. Adrianna insisted on saying hello and talking to them about their summer in English; while it was better than her uncle’s, there were more than a few sentences and phrases lost in translation. It was around half-past one in the morning that Lyra realized the time. “Guys, it’s super late here,” she said, groaning. “I really should try to sleep. I’m watching the shop from noon to four tomorrow.”

As they said their goodbyes, Kris said, “See if you can get Silver on here. I’d love to at least say hi to him.”

 _Don’t bring him up,_ she warned silently. Lyra shrugged. “We’ll see.” She blew them both kisses before hanging up, leaving her in silence again. She restarted the album she was playing earlier to cover it up, as she laid back in bed. As much as she wanted to sleep, her brain was twisting itself in tumultuous circles.

For the first time since Sunday night, she allowed herself to think deeply upon what they had talked about. Before being avoided by Silver, she hadn’t let herself delve too far into it, knowing that ultimately, as long as he was kind and reasonable now, his days of petty crime and hedonism were almost a moot point. It didn’t make her think of him as a worse person. What would _she_ have done in his situation, raised by a totalitarian, cold-edged father that had done nothing but lie to her? Her life, in comparison, had been comfortable and easy. She had no room to judge him, no place to.

It certainly made her sad for him. To have felt that empty, that desolate—no wonder he’d felt so alone. His past haunted him; he hadn’t come to terms with the decisions he’d made and why. How long would it take him to forgive himself, to disentangle himself from decisions made as a raw, runaway teenager? What did he need to help him forgive himself?

But now, as his silence wore on, her patience grew thin. She’d established that she cared about him, established that she wouldn’t hurt him, and established that she was available, and he was going to leave her hanging?

“Don’t leave me,” he’d said to her, but what of him leaving her?

She groaned and buried herself under the covers. Her eyes flicked to see her clothes from the day left in a heap on the floor; she’d simply taken them off and slid into bed after hanging up on Kris and Ethan. “You really ought to put those in the hamper, you know,” she muttered to herself, while remaining curled up on her side in bed.

She turned out the light, turned up the album, and turned onto her back to sleep.

Two-thirds of the way through the album, drowsiness finally began to wash over her when her phone loudly buzzed on the nightstand. Opening her eyes, she became surprised when it buzzed again. _A phone call?_ Lyra thought, bleary. She felt for her phone on the nightstand, grabbed it, and checked the caller ID. When she saw the name, her drowsiness disappeared in an instant.

She answered the phone and said, “Silver?”

“Hi,” said his voice, a strange note to it Lyra couldn’t place. “I’m really close to your place right now. And I want to talk. Can I _please_ come over?”

She felt her eyebrows lift. “Dude, it’s like…” she glanced at her clock. “It’s 2:45. What the hell are you doing?” _I’m not even dressed,_ she thought.

“Please just let me come over,” he said, the tone of his voice still unreadable to Lyra. It was most definitely him talking—the cadence and soft baritone of his voice more than familiar to her—but something seemed as though it wasn’t right.

She groaned. “You could just answer me when I text you. And not ignore me for two days.”

“Lyra,” he said. There was an edge of desperation and sadness to his voice. “please. I’m sorry.”

Sighing, she slid out of bed and grabbed the first things she found in her t-shirts and shorts drawer and sloppily pulled them on. “Fine. I’ll come down. I’ll let you in. We can talk, but you better be quiet.”

“ _You_ better be quiet,” he said, and then hung up. Lyra’s eyebrows raised. Part of her wondered if he was drunk, but that seemed out of character for him, something that would remind him too much of his poor choices as a teenager. She sighed and grabbed a hoodie from her bed post, moving through the dark apartment to confront whatever Silver had brought to her door.

* * *

 

**Present Day**

Silver wasn’t sure what his error in judgment had been while drinking, but it was roughly one in the morning and he felt as though he were floating.

After work, he had changed into his usual street clothes and had gone out to the bars with Proton. At work, his mood had been foul; he’d been unable to even respond to Lyra, and her simple text had been enough. _Hi! I hope you’re okay._ Silver had no inclination to lie to her, and he left it sitting in his inbox, read and acknowledged in a way that made his gut twist.

Now, at the bars, the first few drinks had eliminated the dread. A German beer brought him off the edge and had him more inclined to listen to one of Proton’s story, some tale in which he brought home a girl and woke up to screen-less open windows with a half-dozen pigeons in his apartment. Some local cocktail, a spiced, mango-flavored thing, had him laughing and telling his own tales of misfortune. His head felt pleasantly fuzzed; the turmoil of the past two days was disappearing. He talked of dropping orders, of embarrassing himself performing, of teaching himself to shave with poor results, of falling asleep on the job.

Silver found himself laughing, joking, easily drawn into converstions beside

However, it was the two shots of vodka, taken at the second bar they went, that were slowly doing him in. It also had him far too honest. As he drank a cola, a sort of chaser to the shot he’d just taken, he glanced at Proton to see him talking to a woman that reminded him of Lyra. Her red dress and dark, soft eyes made him pang with longing for her. _I want to see her,_ he thought, saddened. Trying to recover the buoyant feelings, he waited until Proton turned away from her to nudge his arm. “Hey, I…I gotta admit something to you,” he said, gripping the counter to keep himself from swaying. He was never unsteady when drunk, but his body sure felt the need to move.

Proton raised his eyebrows. “ _Aaaand_ what would that be?” Proton responded. He had the same number of drinks as Silver, perhaps even more, but he seemed as sober as when they’d started.

“I dragged you off the pier on purpose on Saturday,” he said. “Don’t fire me.”

Proton scoffed. “You think I didn’t know that? It wasn’t exactly slippery sitting on Arciere’s pier.”

Silver raised his eyebrows. “You just…let me get away with that? You just climbed out of the water and walked away? _Woooooow._ ”

He threw an arm around Silver’s neck and noogied him with his free hand. Silver sputtered and pushed Proton away. Laughing, he returned to his drink; from the smell of it Silver assumed it was the world’s driest martini. He said, “I wasn’t going to embarrass you _further_ in front of a girl. I just think you should keep an eye out for more thumbtacks. I smelled like seawater for hours after, and I can’t get the stink out of my shoes.”

“Ha, loser,” Silver said.

Proton scoffed. “I’m docking you a week’s pay.”

“Aw,” Silver said, knowing full well it was an empty threat.

At this bar, Silver watched Proton talk to more women. He argued with an older man about Pink Floyd’s discography. A girl, with short black hair and dark eyes, tried to talk to him, but Silver brushed her off. _Not here to flirt,_ he thought, watching her drift to another table, leaning into a short man with a cloud of strawberry blonde curls. _Not with you, anyway._

Another cocktail, at the third bar, too expensive to anything but standing room only, had Silver’s mind drifting even closer to Lyra, and admitting he was drunk. This bar was more traditional; he felt too inebriated there, too sloppy. Everyone was quite sober, even for the late hour. No one seemed to notice that he was reeling, that his heart was aching and leaking, but it seemed too nice of a place for someone as drunk as him. He wanted to see her, badly. Yet, he’d embarrassed himself, hadn’t he? He’d been weak and cried and spewed truth until it physically hurt him to speak. _You should hate me,_ he’d said to her, and he wondered still if he meant it.

He didn’t _want_ her to hate him. Whenever she touched him or smiled at him, it felt as though he began to glow. But if Lyra wasn’t stupid, she’d hate him. He was such a bumbling clusterfuck of a human being. He stirred the drink and flicked an ice cube out of it. It fell onto the ground, where Silver crushed it under foot, entertained by its texture. The bad mood passed with the satisfying crunch.

Proton nudged him. Across the bar was a voluptuous blonde, winking to Proton. “You think I should talk to her? She keeps making eyes at me,” he said to Silver.

“She _makes_ eyes? Are you an ocularist?” Silver asked.

Proton gave him a withering look. “How drunk are you?”

“Very. Very, very, _very._ ” He said.

“If she makes eyes, wouldn’t she be the…wait, what _is_ an ocularist?” Proton asked.

Silver patted his arm. Oh God, he was drunk. _Stop touching him. He’s a bitch. Don’t touch him,_ he told himself. “Makes eyes. Fake eyes. Like when you’re sick of wearing a fucking eyepatch because you lost it to a bitch with thumbtacks. So I guess that makes her the ocularist. I misspoke. Fuck me, I guess.”

“Jesus, kid. Two weeks’ pay,” Proton said, but Silver noticed the glint of humor in his eyes.

Proton patted his shoulder and walked toward the blonde, leaving Silver alone with his thoughts. He flicked another ice cube out of his glass and crushed it under his foot. An older woman shot him a look that said to knock it off, but he didn’t care. He downed the rest of the drink and shoved through the crowd to set it on the counter. He saw Proton talking with the blonde; she seemed to be buying the bullshit he was selling. She kept lowering her gaze and flicking it back up to Proton, looking up at him through her eyelashes. He said something that made her laugh. What would he say that was intentionally funny? Or did she just find his terrible, flamboyant style to be somehow _attractive?_ Her taste was terrible.

 _Your taste is terrible,_ he always said to Lyra. Silver laughed to himself softly and thought of her. She seemed to like what he was selling. Him, always in black, his hair too long. His tongue too sharp, always so slow to smile. Yet, she liked him. _I miss her so much. I should text her,_ he thought. He pulled out his phone and saw the text he had ignored earlier. Guilt slapped him gruffly across the face. “Wait, ah no, I…I didn’t text you? Am I fucking _stupid?_ ” he said. He pocked his phone and glanced across the bar at Proton. An idea was formulating in his mind, fueled by his longing. It couldn’t be _that_ late, she couldn’t be _that_ asleep, and his presence couldn’t be _that_ unwelcome.

Silver was going to go see her. He had to be near her. Even a bumbling clusterfuck deserved someone to flirt with and smile at, right? If Proton could be loved, so could he.

Without a second more of thought, he exited the bar. It was far cooler outside, and in his mind, he knew the path he had to take along the Grand Canal to get to her place. There, he could be with her. _Gotta call her before I get there, or else I’ll wake up her family and no one will care about me there anymore,_ he told himself. Regardless, he set off at a jaunty pace, swaying along as he went, ready for time with Lyra.

* * *

**Present Day**

Lyra stood waiting outside for Silver. Her shorts felt too short for the cold, and she wrapped her hoodie more tightly about herself. In the lamplight she saw that she was poorly matched; her shorts were hot pink, the hoodie red and blue plaid print, the oversized t-shirt underneath bright orange. _Is this really how you want to be dressed for this?_ Lyra thought, shifting from foot to foot.

What was he doing, anyway? He hadn’t sounded nearly as depressive as she would’ve expected or as apologetic as she would have hoped. She shuffled her feet, despising the feeling of plastic between her toes this late, and wrapped her arms more tightly around herself.

She almost missed the approach of footsteps. Her eyes flicked up to see a person approaching. As he passed under a streetlight, she caught the red hair. _Silver._ She adjusted herself to face that direction, ready to call him out, to say anything. But instead of hello, he walked directly to her and embraced her, hard. She resisted the urge to squeak, catching his smell in his clothes and his neck as he crouched. “Lyra,” he said, and his grip on her was warm and gentle.

“Silver,” she murmured. Her anger abated somewhat at this unbridled display of affection. She turned her face to the side and kissed the hinge of his jaw. “Where have you been?” she asked him softly.

“At work working. At home sleeping,” he said. He stepped forward, and her back was against the wall of the shop now. “Being a fool.”

“I was worried. Scared you weren’t going to talk to me,” she said to him. He was pressed hard against her, her back firm to the wall. She cleared her throat. “Are you _trying_ to crush me?”

“What?” It took him a moment, but Silver released her and stepped back. Lyra noticed he was not quite standing still. He shifted his weight from foot to foot or visibly…swayed. Before she could ask if he was perhaps drunk, his gaze swept her from head to foot. “You’re so lovely it hurts.”

Lyra’s face grew red. “You stop that,” she said.

He shook his head. A soft smile touched his features and he scratched at his hairline. “I’m sorry,” he said, his expression turning almost comically solemn. “Not for that. You _are_ pretty, so sorry not sorry I’m _not_ going to not call you that,” he said, folding his arms across his chest.

Lyra blinked. “Were you murdered by words there?”

“Shut up, I’m working on it. I’m getting there. I don’t need critics,” Silver said, and Lyra almost had to laugh. “I’m sorry because I’m always so unsure of everything. And you’re so sure. You _care_ about me. Like I’d be a fucking idiot to not see that, but I’m always trying to sabotage that in my head. I care about you, but thinking someone like you would like me? Unthinkable. Weird. Bizarre.”

Lyra kneaded her brow, sensing that it was beginning to rumple. If he was drunk, she didn’t feel responsible sending him away into the night, even if she knew this was a conversation they couldn’t have while he was drunk. “Um, come upstairs. But be quiet. Like very, _very_ quiet. If you can. I get the feeling you were drinking.”

Silver grabbed her hands and tugged her toward him. “I _was_ drinking, like...forty minutes ago. Stay outside with me. The night’s pretty. I’m happy for the next two hours.”

 _I’m happy for the next two hours_ crippled her with a pang of sadness. Airing on the side of lighthearted, she glanced down at herself. “Have you seen what I’m wearing?” she said.

“You’re a mess,” he said, “and I love that.”

She pulled her hands away from him and shoved him lightly. It was then that she realized just how drunk he was. Silver stumbled backward, and she caught him again by the hands, keeping him stable as he got back onto his feet. “I can’t believe you’ve done this,” he said to her. “Shoving a drunk in public.”

“So you admit you’re drunk,” she said, smirking.

He let go of her hands and started walking away, but backwards. “You conned me! I am not drunk! I just said I was a drunk. I think. Could a drunk person do this?” Before Lyra could tell him to turn around and walk normally, he stumbled again, over a raised stone in the path, and fell onto his butt.

 _No, a drunk person cannot do that,_ Lyra thought, but she didn’t say it. She groaned and walked over to him. Lyra helped him to his feet and pulled him snug to her side. His hands felt cold. “C’mon. Let’s get you inside. You can sleep it off in my room.”

“I wanna lay by you,” he said. “Do I get to lay by you?”

“Sure, but you really should sleep,” she told him. “Also, that’s a twin bed up there.”

“I can lay _really_ close to you. Hell yeah. Suck it, Proton. A girl likes me,” he mumbled as Lyra opened the door and guided him through. She held her finger to her lips, not sure whether to be annoyed by Silver’s gung-ho attitude while drunk or find it endearing.

In her bedroom, she slipped out of her hoodie as Silver laid himself as gently as he could on the bed, on top of the covers. “Get under them,” she breathed to him. “I think drunk people have lower body temperatures. Your hands felt really cold.”

“It’s because I wasn’t with you,” he said back, his voice equally quiet. He slid under her blankets and took one of her pillows. He shoved it under his head as Lyra crawled in beside him. “I’m…I’m not brave. I wanna tell you this stuff when I’m not drunk,” he mumbled to her.

As she settled in, he dragged her into the crook of his body and held her close. She had to stifle the squeak as he buried his face in her hair, his breath trailing over her neck. “Okay. But we’re not going to talk about how you disappeared on me for two days while you’re drunk. That’s a sober talk.” she said, resisting the urge to shiver.

“Okay,” he said, and his voice was so close she shivered this time. He laughed quietly at that and buried his face in the crook of her neck, making the feeling worse. Her face burned. “If I don’t say I’m sorry sober, I’m stupid.”

“Is alcohol a truth serum for you?” she asked, her voice ragged. When he talked, she felt his lips brush her neck through her hair, and it was making her feel…strange.

He was silent for a moment. “Maybe,” he whispered to her.

The shiver must have been noticeable. She heard him laugh, quietly, and she felt him lift his hand, brushing hair from her neck, and pressed a kiss below her ear. Lyra gasped; it felt as though fire was travelling down her neck and into her veins, coiling lower. He tightened his hold on her, pressing soft kisses to her neck and shoulder and hair. “Silver,” she panted.

He paused and said, “Yes?” into her neck.

“Go the fuck to sleep,” she said to him.

“Only if you do,” he said.

She groaned as he continued kissing her. His thumb had lifted the hem of her shirt, rubbing a semicircle over her hip. In the face of his affection ministrations, her resolve was fading. “Silver,” she repeated, with more force.

He paused. “That’s me,” he said, but his tone was almost uncertain. “Is something wrong?” he added, when he craned far enough to notice Lyra’s expression.

“No just…that’s better to do sober, too, I think,” she said.

“Sober me is a bitch,” Silver grumbled. He released her and turned over onto his back. “Existence is a bitch.”

Lyra giggled and rolled over. She arranged herself against him, huddling close. “I’ll just make it clear I love physical affection. Especially from you. I love any affection from you.”

“You do?” he glanced down at her. His eyelids seemed heavier and heavier. He grinned and flopped his head back. “Oh, nice. Nice, nice, nice. I like when you as much as look at me. I feel important. Like I can do things, like…I don’t know, build a rocket.”

“Rocket science?” she implored.

“I’m also an ocularist. Or I think that woman Proton hitting up was. I don’t know anymore. Time’s a sham. The only real thing is this room and you,” he said, his eyes closing. He began to roll onto his side, and Lyra found herself gazing at the wall of his back; his shoulders seemed broader from this perspective. Lyra pressed herself to his back and hooked her arms around him, sneaking her arm under his neck. Her hand rested against his belly, just under his ribcage. He always felt so slender to her; it made her worry about him. “What’s this?” Silver asked her.

“I’m cuddling _you,_ ” she murmured. She hooked her thigh over his and sighed softly. “Go to sleep, Silver.”

“Will you sleep?” he asked, his voice thin and soft.

“I can always sleep. You know that,” she murmured.”

“I don’t want to sleep. I’ve only seen you like fifteen minutes in two days. We have shit to talk about. Like I have this idea. I want to play Clair de Lune with you, because you make Debussy sound like spun gold, and I have a cello, and I think those two together would be _awesome,_ ” he murmured, but he was beginning to drift off. Lyra could hear it in his voice.

She pressed herself closer to him and closed her eyes. “I’d love to play some Debussy with you. We still have Libertango to work on, too.”

“I’m off Thursday,” he mumbled. “Good. But also bad. Proton will hide more thumbtacks.”

“Tetanus booster,” she reminded him.

Conversation trailed off there, and Lyra nestled her head into his back. Even if he was drunk, she felt safer with him there. Her skin and heart were still abuzz, her mind flooded with the thought of his kisses and his roaming hands. She was nearly asleep when Silver mumbled, “I just…want to kiss you. Lyra, can I kiss you more tomorrow? Or did I ruin everything? Can I even ask that right now?”

“I promise you didn’t ruin everything,” she said to him. “So just stop doing stupid things. Then you can kiss me. I’ll even kiss you back”

“ _Stop_ doing stupid things? Inconceivable,” he said, but he rested his hand over hers, where it rested against his stomach.

“Silver,” she warned. “No stupid.”

“Yes stupid.” Lyra poked his stomach. “Fine, no stupid.”

She rested her face against him and sighed, contented. “We’ll talk more when you’re better. Promise me that.”

“I promise. Hold sober me to that. He’s a flighty little fucker,” Silver mumbled.

She smiled and rubbed her face into his back. Lyra yawned and found herself drifting again. She felt his hand grip over hers, keeping her pulled close, as though nothing else was tethering him to this world. No more words were said between them, and sleep crashed over her.

* * *

**Present Day**

Silver woke up slowly. He was sleeping somewhere that smelled like _her,_ and he was warm. There was a body nestled into his back, the sound of light snoring.

Panic settled. Had he _done_ something with her last night? Silver looked over his shoulder, fearful, but saw that Lyra was clothed, her back pressed hard against his. He was clothed; in fact, he was wearing the same clothes as he had last night. Other than pulsing in his head and the Impressionist quality of some of his memories, he barely felt like he had been drinking.

Lyra was still asleep, but he slowly turned over to face her. _We have to talk today,_ he thought. Yet, he curled himself around her, his head resting by hers. _I think it might be a hard talk. But I deserve it for disappearing on her again._

She stirred slightly, her back pressing to his chest. His heart grew full as she sighed softly in her sleep; she felt safe enough to sleep soundly next to him. However, even with the movement and sweet little sounds, Lyra did not wake. He stopped watching her and stretched out beside her, feeling like some kind of protective barrier against the world for her. The thought gave him some comfort. He felt his eyes closing again. Before they shut fully, he glanced at her alarm clock, to see it was only seven in the morning. His shift didn’t start until 6 that night; he could sleep for longer, crammed close to her in her tiny bed.

He was drifting away, comfortable, unafraid of whatever conversation they had to have, and fell back asleep. Yet, it seemed almost an instant later when a loud knock on the door startled him awake. He glanced to Lyra, seeing that she hadn’t even stirred, her sides still rising and falling peacefully. “Lyra?” said Adrianna’s voice. “It’s almost ten-thirty. Are you alive in there?”

She waited a few seconds. Silver froze as the doorknob turned. In a moment of sheer panic, he flopped back onto his side and cuddled into her, pretending to still be asleep. If he was going to be caught in her room after a night of drunkenness, it was better to seem soft and unassuming, right?

He heard the door open. Silence stretched. “Lyra,” said Adrianna’s voice, flatly. Now she stirred. He watched with one eye open as she sat up to see Adrianna standing there. “I see why you slept in. Sneak in a little fun last night?”

Lyra nudged his arm. “Um…yeah,” she settled for. “I’m sorry. I was lonely.” Silver’s brow’s lifted in surprise. _She isn’t going to tell Adrianna I stumbled here drunk?_

“Don’t be,” Adrianna said, “but I sense you brought him in late. In the future, just tell me if you’re going to have the boy over.”

Silver sat up and opened his eyes. His face was burning. “Hi,” he said, facing her stern gaze.

In spite of herself, she flashed him a smile. “Hello, Silver.” Her eyes flitted back to Lyra, where they became cooler. “Remember you work at noon, Lyra.” She walked away, leaving the door wide open.

Lyra groaned and smashed her head into Silver’s bicep. “Yeah, good morning. My ass is grass,” she mumbled. She pulled her forehead away and patted his arm. “I…think you should leave soon. But can I get you anything before you go?”

“Water,” he said. He bent down and kissed her cheek quickly. “I’m sorry for coming here last night.”

“Not your fault. I let you in,” she said. As she got up and pulled on her hoodie, she added, “Let’s postpone our talk. I think Adrianna and I may have a bit of a chat.”

She cut him a slice of bread as he drank his fill of water. Adrianna was in the kitchen, her tone cordial but her face sharp. _It’s my fault,_ he thought. _I shouldn’t have come here last night._

Lyra walked him out as he was still eating a slice of ciabatta. She unlocked the door and held it open for him, her face smiling in spite of whatever situation was waiting for her upstairs. “You’re quite funny drunk,” she whispered to him, winking. “But don’t come here again drunk, please.”

“We’ll get drunk together at my apartment when you’re legal. Blind leading the blind or whatever. No compromising situations at home,” he said, after swallowing his bite of bread.

She patted his arm and went back into the shop. “Don’t forget to text me,” she said, eyes flicking up to him with warning. “Whatever else we do, we gotta talk about _not_ ghosting me.”

“Okay.” He gave her a nod, and she waved lightly to him before closing the door. Sober and feeling as though he still smelled of cocktails and the bar, he headed for home. His heart didn’t feel lighter, but he was less worried about the situation now. Whatever she knew, she wasn’t going to turn on him. Even though he had been drunk and vulnerable, she hadn’t told Adrianna of it. Silver knew she wouldn’t later. _Why do you worry so much about how she’ll act? She trusts you. You need to trust her,_ he ordered himself as he shoved the rest of the bread in his mouth. _Whatever you tell her, she will respect your privacy._

With alarm, he realized, _She’ll watch out for you. So don’t put her in shitty situations._

Out loud, he huffed a sigh. Silver owed her yet another apology.

 

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello welcome to the 14th chapter of muddied emotions featuring a drunk Silver and a Lyra who absolutely deserves better. 
> 
> Also, yes. Silver knows things about his mother. Will he divulge those things? If Lyra has anything to say about it, yes.
> 
> Also hot take: if I were Lyra I would've thrown Silver in a canal, but also she is far more forgiving than me. Also covering for him? Unheard of with me. I would've thrown him under the bus. "Yeah he showed up drunk and I let him sleep here so he wasn't a menace to the general public" is how I would personally go about it but go off I guess.
> 
> I'm moving on Saturday. I'm hoping to post at least one more update on my currenty weekly/biweekly schedule before the semester slaughters me. Until next update, take care!
> 
> Music this chapter:
> 
> Triplety Brahms Etude: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=l4hZYmrFlp8
> 
> Some of the moodier piano piano pieces that encapsulate the mood of what Lyra would've played:
> 
> Chopin's Op.48 C Minor Nocturne: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=c94nySKKoWE
> 
> Prokofiev's Piano Sonata No. 1 in F Minor (most likely excerpts rather than a full piece) https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=APxweGUCqIs
> 
> Astor Piazzolla's "Oblivion" https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=qLggBpwzCno
> 
> Also fun fact: Astor Piazzolla is probably one of my favorite composers of all time. Bless you, tango man.
> 
> Also I'm just gonna link Clair de Lune, as a piano piece because I'm currently tracking down a cello/piano duet for the future for it. Still can't believe they used a version of this for the Godzilla King of the Monsters movie. https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=CvFH_6DNRCY


	15. Chapter 15

**Seven Years Ago**

“What’s Italy like?”

It seemed Silver and Lyra always ended up on the swings at the park. It was early autumn, the leaves just barely tinted with red, the air still burdened with the oppressive heat of summer. They had been talking about a horrible monster movie they had watched on TV while attempting to swing in synch, until she had interrupted with that question.

Silver was at the height of his swing’s arc, where Lyra was slightly behind him. “Italy? Why do you care?” Sometimes, her questions seemed so arbitrary. Why was she even thinking of that? They’d just been talking about fire-breathing lizards and smashed tanks; Italy was the furthest thing from his mind.

“Um, I’m from Italy. Or my mom is,” she said, now at the peak of her swing. “You’ve been there.”

Silver hit the back of the arc and swung forward, forcing him to look back at Lyra as he responded, “Yeah, I lived there. When I was little. I’m ten now.”

“That’s more than me,” Lyra said. She hit the low point of her arc and dug her heels in, bringing herself to a halt. Silver did not humor her and continued to pump his legs to sail higher and higher. She scoffed. “C’mon, Silver. What do you remember?”

“Everyone actually spoke my language,” he said.

Lyra scoffed. “Yeah, but _what about the country?_ ”

He chuckled to himself. Silver leapt from the swing at its zenith and landed on his feet. Darting back to the swing, he sat down. “Everything looks old. Everything is old, I guess. There’s Catholic stuff everywhere.”

Lyra looked across at him. “I want to go so bad,” she said. She pulled herself up until she stood on her swing, rocking it slightly as she gazed down on him. “Mom says when I’m older. But I wanna go to Venice soon! That’s where my aunt works! I wanna go on a gorgonzola—”

“A gondola?” Silver corrected.

“Yeah, that! That other thing is cheese.” Lyra swung back and forth, her eyes gleaming. “Silver, will you go there with me someday?”

He scoffed. “How? Your mom doesn’t want to let you go until you’re old. And my dad hates you and would never take you anywhere with us.”

Lyra shot him a withering look. “He loves me and just doesn’t know it. Mom says I’m a delight.”

Silver shook his head. “No, he definitely hates you.”

“Shut up, _Silvy,_ ” she said, spitting out the bastardization of his chosen name. He felt his ire raise. The temptation to knock her out of her swing grew, but he controlled the urge. “Did you ever go there?”

“Nah. Dad says I was born in a city called Lucca,” he said. “And we lived either in Rome or Genoa when I was little.”

“Do you think you’ll ever end up in Venice?” she asked.

He shrugged. “I don’t know. I wanna go a lot of other places first.”

Lyra craned her head back, staring at the fluffy white clouds that passed overhead. Cars honked in the street, and older kids were shouting each other down in the basketball court, but Silver felt his attention stick to her. She looked down at him and sighed. “Do you think I’ll get to go to Japan or Italy first?”

“Italy,” he said, without hesitation. “Your mom actually wants you to go. Just not until you’re older.”

“Eighteen is _ancient,_ ” she groaned. She twisted the swing around until the chains were coiled over top of her head. “I’ll probably be married by then. And own a house. I can’t just up and go to Italy with all those things.”

After a moment, she let herself spin out until the swing had righted itself, leaving her unsteady next to him. “Plus Dad’s never even talked to me about Japan. All I know is I have family in a city called…Kyoto,” she said, the word stumbling off her tongue. “So I want to go to Venice. That’s that.”

He nudged her. “Maybe someday we will, yeah?”

“Eh, probably not. Your dad won’t realize how much he loves me and wants me to be your friend forever and won’t include me in your family vacations. What a _jerk,_ ” she said. She released her grip from the chains to pound her fist into her hand, but as she was likely still dizzy from her spin, she stumbled off the swing and landed on her knees in the woodchips.

Unable to help himself, Silver pointed at her and guffawed. “You _fell,_ ” he said, tauntingly.

She grabbed his leg and pulled him to the ground; he landed half-sitting, half-reclined in the woodchips. “Oh no, so did _you,_ ” she said.

“You’re buying tickets when we go to Venice now,” he told her, rubbing his now-sore back.

She tipped her head. “My allowance is about five dollars a week. So…maybe if I save up for a year?”

Silver flopped onto his back, ignoring the wood chips in his hair and the dirt now staining his clothes. After a moment, he said, “I think airplane tickets to go to another country are like a thousand dollars.”

Lyra groaned. “Okay, so like…a few years. And I’ll ask for a raise?”

“Yeah, we’ll see it never,” Silver muttered.

A handful of woodchips were tossed on his shirt. He glared at her, as she held yet another fist packed with woodchips directly over his chest. Unable to be surprised by Lyra’s antics at this point, he simply said, “I’ll just tell Father it’s your fault when he asks why I’m filthy again.”

Without hesitating, Lyra dropped yet another handful of woodchips over him.

* * *

**Present Day**

Wednesday passed, Silver fluctuating between embarrassment at being caught in Lyra’s bed and exhaustion. Truth be told, he was kicking himself more than would have made Lyra happy. She hated that, when he spoke poorly of himself. Yet, was there _really_ any good to himself? Lyra believed it. Her face said she believed it, but he felt that she could believe anything of anyone.

The walk home from work was oddly quiet; Silver wondered if there was some austere church holiday he’d forgotten about. Some made the _sestieri_ fall quiet, while others encouraged even more drinking and cavorting. Perhaps it was the weather; there was a misty rain falling, a dank breeze that smelled of fish, a sort of rot to the air. He saw only locals walking back from the bars tonight, faces and shoulders bowed against the weather.

When Silver arrived at his building, exhaustion swept over him. _Lyra and I are going to talk again tomorrow,_ he realized with a sigh. He didn’t want to keep putting her through that. She deserved better.

In the apartment, he unbuttoned his work shirt and slipped out of it, tossing it unceremoniously aside. He felt better than he had the past few days, but there was still a gray, forlorn haze that settled over him.

Silver changed into something more comfortable. Unable to fight the craving any longer, he went to his nightstand and opened the drawer. It was crammed full of what he always thought of as “random shit”—receipts, ticket stubs, packets of tissues. Half of the space was occupied by a Bible he had no desire to read but no will to throw away. He rummaged until his fingers closed around a small box. Snagging a remaining cigarette and grabbing a lighter, he lit the cigarette and migrated to the balcony.

Leaning against the wall, he puffed away. It calmed him down, lifted the fog that seemed to be settling over him as he exhaled gusts of smoke into the night. _Stop dreading this,_ he thought to himself. _You can get your shit together now._  Lightning flashed in the distance as he smoked the cigarette down, ashes falling to the floor of the balcony. The mist from the rain billowed over him. As it burned down to ashes, he muttered, as he had with any of the remaining few he still had, “Last box.”

He ground out the butt and tossed it in the ashtray he left on the ground. Silver entered the apartment, regretting the stink that followed him. He thought about showering, but instead found himself laying on the floor, violin tucked up under his neck, plucking chromatics. His mind was wandering to softer things now, thinking of how tightly she’d wrapped herself around him, of how reassuring and sweet she’d been last night, of how damned _funny_ she was. It was no wonder his feelings had returned for her so quickly—she was such a blaze.

He plucked a vibrant arpeggio and sighed. Silver _had_ to better himself for her. She didn’t deserve nearly the amount of trouble he kept putting her through. _Don’t drive her away, moron,_ he reminded himself.

The next morning, freshly showered and casually dressed, he headed over to Lyra’s. He had his violin case in one hand and the other raised to knock on the door when it started opening. Silver found himself gazing at Adrianna, whose eyebrows lifted at the sight of him. “Ah, Silver. Here to be caught in compromising situations with my niece again?”

Silver tried to respond, but his mouth wouldn’t quite move. Adrianna patted his shoulder and moved past him, shouldering a tote bag. “Play well today,” she said.  She headed off, the opposite direction from where Silver had come, leaving him to stand dumbfounded.

He gave himself a minute before he knocked on the door. Lyra could be heard, skittering down the stairs, before opening the door. “Oh jeez, hi,” she said, pushing hair out of her eyes. The humidity had it curling rakishly, flipping up around her shoulders. “I wondered if you were Adrianna and if you’d locked yourself out for a second.”

“That’s my secret—I _am_ Adrianna,” he said.

Lyra sighed and pinched the bridge of her nose, eyes scrunching shut. Then, they flew open, an expression of bewilderment. “Did she say anything to you? She behaved, right?” she demanded.

“Uh…” Silver sighed. “No.”

“Goddammit, I told her to behave.” She groaned and waved him in. “Come on up. I made tea.”

 _Tea?_ Lyra was much more of a coffee lover than a tea lover, from what he had seen. Had she made some just because he was on the way? Regardless, in the kitchen, Lyra poured him what was perhaps the blackest tea he’d ever seen; if it weren’t for the smell, he would have thought it was coffee. He took a sip and found it to be rich and bitter. Silver preferred the green tea he made at home, but the beverage wasn’t unwelcome. Lyra sat across from him, pouring copious milk and sugar into hers before as much as taking a sip. She regarded him, her eyes soft, saying nothing for his first few drinks.

After a moment he set the mug aside, white and chipped around the rim, and sighed. “I think you’re expecting me to say something.”

“What gives you that idea?” she said, propping her face in her hand. She drummed her fingers on the table. “You kind of put me in a bad place, buddy.”

“I…I know,” he said. There was thinly veiled hurt in her voice that cut him with guilt. “I’m sorry.”

“Look, when you were drunk, you were _really_ honest,” she said, keeping her voice low. She pushed her hands through her hair and sighed. “I care a lot about you, and it kind of kills me when you push me away. Is it something I’m doing?”

Silver couldn’t look at her. More softly, she added, “I don’t want this to be a hard talk, but I put myself out there for you. So I really need something in return, okay?”

 _Talk to her,_ chastised the voice in the back of his mind. He looked back to her and pulled the mug between his palms, feeling the warmth radiating into his palms. He stared into the dark liquid and saw his brow, furrowed, staring back. Taking a deep breath, he looked to her, into her eyes pleading for answers. “Okay,” he said. “This is so hard for me. But it doesn’t matter when I constantly say that and then still do dumb shit.”

Lyra opened her mouth to interject, but Silver continued, “If I come here drunk again, if I do anything that’ll put you in a bad position again, throw me under the bus. It’s what I deserve. I won’t even be mad. I keep doing such fucking stupid shit and then wonder why you’re pissed—”

Lyra reached across the table and flicked his hand. He stopped and glared at her. “What the hell was that for?”

“I’m not going to throw you under the bus. Literally, just…just talk to me. I was really worried about you when you disappeared after that conversation,” she said, her eyes burning. She sighed. “What more can I do? I like you. I want to spend as much time as I can with you. I want you to be open with me without just bleeding all of your feelings everywhere and then feeling horrible.”

He nodded. Hadn’t Proton called him a ticking time bomb? _He was right, too,_ Silver thought bitterly. Silver lifted his eyes to her. “I…okay. I have an idea,” he said, an unsavory but important thought springing to mind.

Her eyebrows lifted. “Alright.”

“Ask me anything. Whenever. If you’re thinking it, ask me it. The more you tiptoe around, I think the more I shrink away. So fucking what if it’s uncomfortable? You’ve been sticking by me and showing me all this kindness and affection. And what I’m doing isn’t healthy,” he admitted. He rubbed his eyes, thinking of the difficulty the situation presented. Yet wasn’t it worth it if it was for her, for this person he kept acting so selfishly toward? “You’re not even pushy with me. You deserve more from me.”

“It’s not about what I deserve,” Lyra said. She reached across the table and gripped one of his hands. Tension flowed from his body, and his eyes closed. “I’m going to hold you to that, just so you know. I have a million questions.”

“Of course you do,” he groaned. Regardless, he leaned across the table and kissed the back of  her hand. “If it’s too much, I absolutely am going to tell you to knock it off, though.”

“Watch that be you after exactly one question,” Lyra joked, but her face seemed warm. She released his hand and stood, dusting herself off. “My first question: are you hungry? We have an abundance of eggs. I wanna fry a few.”

“Are you going to poison me?” Silver asked.

She nodded. “Absolutely. You know me and my handy stash.”

Silver settled back and linked his hands behind his head. “Good. I’m going to need it.”

After fried eggs, they set up in the living room once again. Lyra slapped music on his stand. As he paged through it, she said, “I found more Piazzolla stuff to try, because I think that just works for us. One is a version of ‘Oblivion.’ I’m super familiar with it. There’s an Irish folk song in there. It’s more a solo on your end, but it has a cool piano accompaniment on my part, so I’ll just follow you on that one. Also, we gotta play ‘Libertango’ no doubt…” Silver zoned out as she talked, watching her page through her music. She had on a dark pink top on with tied-off straps; it kept slipping off her shoulder. A faint memory flashed through his head, of kissing her neck and her shoulder, of her voice telling him to go to sleep. His face grew hot, wondering what it’d be like to do that sober.

 _Focus,_ he told himself, looking away from the uninterrupted plane of her collarbone. It felt disrespectful to zone out and think of a moment like that when she was talking about music she’d chosen for them.

“Also, I’m still looking for some Debussy,” she said, and his eyes flicked to her. She grinned. “You…suggested it last time you were over. ‘Clair de Lune’ specifically, if I remember right, but with cello. If I find a cello version, you better bring it over.”

He scratched at his neck. His hair was up, using the hairtie she’d given him what felt like ages ago at this point. “I…sure did.”

Lyra squinted at him. “Do you even remember?”

“Barely. I remember a few things. Like falling over. And you told me my hands were cold. I think I remember telling you to bust my ass when I sobered up.” _Mostly I just wanted to melt into you,_ he added silently. Lyra’s eyebrows shot up incredulously and she gave him a half-grin. “Look, you get drunk, and you tell me if your memories are crystal clear and salient and whatever the fuck else.”

She straightened the strap on her top yet again and pointed to him with the pencil in her other hand. “You get me drunk and I’ll let you know,” she said. There was a bizarrely sultry note in her voice, one that absolutely seized his stomach, but it disappeared again as she flipped through the score of one piece. “Tell me what you want to try first.”

He swallowed, his mouth drier than sandstone. “How about the Irish piece?”

They played for a while, Lyra following his quick, bouncing pace. It was a lighthearted piece, lilting, almost comedic, and he found it easy to read. Better yet—it was tame. It cut through the atmosphere he’d created, the one Lyra had sustained, and let them return to a joking, humorous atmosphere.

“Mind not jumping two lines in the _middle_ of my solo?” he said during a break, after Lyra made a mistake.

“I don’t know, maybe you should’ve just jumped with me!” she sniped, a coy smile curling over her face.

He pointed his bow at her. “You…are the worst accompanist.”

She stood from her seat, mimicking flipping the keyboard, and showed him her middle finger. Unable to help himself, he laughed. She snatched his bow from his hand and walked into the kitchen, saying, “Can’t play without this! Mine now, pal!”

After painstakingly stealing his bow back from Lyra and goofing off for a while, they read the piece for a while longer before they took a break, sitting on the floor of the living room. Lyra sat with her back against the couch, her feet resting on top of his, and worked on tucking her hair into messy pigtails. “So, second question,” she started, and Silver felt his good mood falter. “Why did you choose Florence, when you ran away?”

He sighed. “Ah.” He found sudden interest in the ceiling, at the paint peeling in the corners, and flipped his gaze back to her. “I…had been there before. We lived there for a few months at some point. I was more familiar with it than any other options I was considering. I knew enough that I felt like I could make it work. And at that time, staying in Italy was the most important to me. I didn’t want to move somewhere else when that’s all I’d been forced to do my whole life.”

Lyra tapped her feet against the tops of his. “Were you scared when you left?” she asked him.

He wanted to bluff, to say _Of course not,_ but it wasn’t true, was it? It would be a blatant deflection, a false sense of bravado to keep her and the truth at bay. “Yeah. I was fucking terrified,” he said to her. “But I felt gloriously free, for a little bit.”

“Free,” she echoed. Her eyes flicked to him. “Do you feel free now?”

“I feel like I have my own life. I don’t know if that’s free as much as it is…independence. And self-sustainability. I’m surviving without my father, and he can kiss my ass, wherever he ended up,” Silver said, feeling his hands clench. He took a breath. _Think before you speak._ A few seconds later, he concluded, “It was a long road to get here. And even here…isn’t great.”

Lyra slid closer to him. She rested her hands on her knees, drawn close to her chest, and said, “Yeah, but…didn’t we talk about Venice when we were kids?” she said. Silver frowned. “Don’t you remember?” she asked.

He shrugged. There was a tickle of a memory. Unable to help himself, he retorted, “We talked about a lot of things. I remember you wanted to own a houseboat in Sydney, Australia.”

“ _Finding Nemo_ was a religious experience for me,” she said, but she laughed. “It’s kind of funny. We talked about going a lot of places. But we definitely talked about travelling here at some point.”

He sighed. “We were kids. I’m just here because of Proton, honestly.”

“Still a bit funny you ended up here. I’d almost forgotten until this conversation,” she said. “But I suppose if you stole my dream of owning a houseboat in Australia—”

He gave her a deadpan look. “Do I look like I’d live in the southern hemisphere? Do you see what the sun _here_ does to me? Also, I hate boats.”

She nodded, but her eyes suddenly narrowed. “You hate boats, but you live in Venice?”

“They’re gondolas and waterbuses,” he retorted, “not boats.”

Her eyes still narrowed, she bumped her shoulder into his silently. For a few seconds, they sat side by side, the drone of the air conditioner the only noise in the apartment. Then, Lyra stood and straightened her shirt. “Let’s get back to work. ‘Libertango’ isn’t going to play itself.”

“We’re moving onto ‘Libertango?’” Silver asked, scrambling onto his feet.

She slid onto the bench and powered the keyboard on, her eyes glimmering. “Yeah. Show me what you’ve been doing with this.”

Sensing a challenge in her tone, Silver grabbing his instrument from where he’d set it on the couch and rose. “It’ll blow your mind.”

She smirked at him, and his lingering doubts began to fade. Without any further ado, she launched herself into the introduction, and Silver was left to pick up on her frenetic pace.

-

**One Year Ago**

The laptop Silver had bought was secondhand. The fan whirred and clunked, and the screen flickered if he rested it at the wrong angle on his lap. He had to settle on the floor, cross-legged, and pull the coffee table over his lap to use it at times; his counter and its barstools were uncomfortable for long periods of work. It was an aggravating, clunky contraption, but he owned it, having purchased it with four months of busking money.

With that, Silver, hoped nothing happened with his violin for the next month or so.

He stared, sitting at an open word document, sighing. He tucked his hair into a high knot and willed words to come to him; after months of scratched out sentences written in discounted notebooks and on the backs of receipts and water bills, Silver wanted to be able to spill everything he was thinking, every word into a document.

He hadn’t been writing long. Just a few months. It had started with a question from the therapist, an older man with horn-rimmed glasses and slicked back white hair. “What hobbies do you have?” his therapist had asked, and Silver realized he couldn’t answer that question. What did he do other than work? If he wasn’t at the café, he was busking, and if he wasn’t busking, he was doing minor repairs. It was the only way he could afford rent; the deal he had worked out with the landlady had him at her beck and call for when something went wrong in the building. If he wasn’t doing one of those three things, then there was…nothing. Listening to music. Maybe maintaining his violin. Maybe going to a bar with Proton and his coworkers.

So, writing. He’d picked up writing. In telling to his therapist about his life, his therapist had lightly joked, “You could write a novel.” Wasn’t it appropriate, then, that he sat on his floor, hair piled on his head to keep it off his neck, trying to make sense of the twisted tangle in his head?

He stared at the word document. What was on his mind? What story did he have to tell? He had several documents with snippets of fiction. Dark clusters of sentence detailing a concept that ended before it could go anywhere. Personal essays about things that weren’t of note, but anything meaty? Thoughtful? Where could it come from?

“I want to tell stories,” he’d told his therapist, some sessions later. “I think…it could help me make sense of myself. My life.”

“I _was_ joking,” the man said, but there was interest in his gaze.

Silver sighed. “But I want to.”

“Then you should,” the therapist responded.

So he sat, staring at the blankness before him. What was there in his life, other than drama? Than sadness? Than faint despair? Than…regret? In his eyes, a good novel was not devoid of hope. Anything he wrote would be steeped in hopelessness; as far as he’d come since even six or seven months ago.

Maybe that would be what it took, though, to write something of quality. To write out that despair, to let the words fly until there was nothing more to say in that depth of sadness.

His hair was already falling from the knot, trying to crawl back down his neck, but he pressed his fingers to the keys and typed a few sentences.

_My name was Giovanni Briccone II. Like about everything else in my life, I’ve found it was a lie. There have only been a few grains of truth, interspersed among the falsehoods my father subjected me to.  The older I become, the more I realize the only thing we remotely in common was that our true names were the same: Giovanni Bianchi. The only person I’ve never felt betrayed by is—_

His fingers paused. He deleted the past few sentences and sighed. Not for the first time and surely not for the last, he wondered what Lyra would think of everything he’d been through, if he ever got to see her again. _It’s not productive. Don’t even think about her. She probably doesn’t even remember you. It’s been a few years,_ he thought. He flashed his fingers across the keyboard again.

_I never knew truth in my life until I was seventeen, and by then, the only person who could give me easy answers was dead. Even now, my nineteenth birthday just weeks away, I don’t know everything. Part of me wonders if I ever will. The details of my story are nebulous, but to write them out would help me feel unburdened. Maybe it will help me see myself more favorably._

There. That was a way to start. Fixing his ponytail quickly, he resumed writing, letting his apartment fade out around him.

* * *

 

**Present Day**

Until Silver had said “here isn’t great,” Lyra had nearly forgotten about their conversations about travelling to Italy, specifically to Venice; they were simply grandiose dreams of children trying to connect their worlds.

Yet, now they were both here. _What a strange coincidence,_ she thought to herself, flipping back several pages. Silver wanted to try something new in a previous section, but her mind was still on the happy little thing she’d realized. _I wonder if that influenced him to come here, whether or not because Proton gave him reason to stay._

The little bubble of happiness that welled up inside her made the energy needed for “Libertango” hard to find. She felt soft, gushy, rather _loving_ —all she wanted to do was lay by his side and listen to his stories about his life, to his barbed opinions, to the sardonic edge in his voice. She wanted to hear him breathe, to hear his heart beat against his ribcage, the passion in his voice when he talked about music, literature, and anything else that caught his eye. It was strange to her. In the short time she’d come to spend time with him again, it made her uncomfortable when she couldn’t see him. Their time apart, followed by this close proximity and the emotional connection of the music, filled her with outlandish neediness.

She had never felt anything like it, and she relished it.

No more than a few measures in, Lyra stumbled, too busy watching the way his brows lifted whenever he hit a high note, and Silver stopped. “You’re really not on top of it today, are you?”

Lyra shrugged, feelings her cheeks burning. “Maybe you’re just _too_ on top of things today.”

He pulled the violin out from under his chin and let it dangle at his side as he regarded her. It was clear that he didn’t buy it; his eyes were piercing her. “That’s a load of garbage. You absolutely flubbed a section we’ve run multiple times. And I was flat.”

 _He was?_ Her expression must have betrayed her. Silver’s mouth twitched with irritation. “You honestly missed that?”

“It’s not that,” Lyra hedged. When he didn’t answer, she turned off her keyboard and hid her face in her hands and groaned. “I’m just…oh, I don’t know.”

“You’re just what?” he pressed. There was a note of concern in his voice now.

She lifted her head and met his gaze squarely. “I just…I’m not really feeling that energy. I’m not feeling this.” His face fell, and Lyra felt alarm go through her. With haste she stood and walked to him, resting her forehead square in the middle of his chest. That action alone removed all of her tension. “Come lay with me for a bit,” she murmured.

“O-oh,” he said, his tone softening considerably. She grabbed his hand and led him to her room. Lyra closed the door behind her, locking it, and crawled into bed. He laid beside her. Without a moment to spare, she snuggled into him, her head on his shoulder, one arm hooked over his stomach. They laid silently, Lyra resisting the urge to nuzzle her cheek into him.

She felt his lips press to her forehead, feather-light. He murmured, “Why?”

“Because,” she said. She closed her eyes. Though she wasn’t sleepy, peace flooded through her. Lyra had wanted this badly ever since he’d cuddled her drunk; to have him beside her, sober and warm, allowed her to relax. “Talk to me about something.”

“Okay, sure. You’re being a fucking weirdo. That’s something,” he remarked.

Lyra opened her eyes and glared up at him. “Dude, reminder you were all over me _drunk._ Can I be all over you sober?”

He glanced away; color crawled up his neck and into his cheeks. “I’m sorry about that.”

She sighed and peeled away from him. Propping her head up with one arm, she looked at Silver, as he turned onto his side to gaze at her. “I’ll remind you of what I said then,” she said. “You’re allowed to like me sober. I’m not going to judge you for it.”

Something flashed in his eyes. He rubbed the bridge of his nose, right above the slight bump in it Lyra found charming. “So I was really sappy while drunk.”

“Yeah it really gave me whiplash. You called me lovely. You were talking about how you were going to tell Proton that a girl liked you. You…” she trailed off. _Now isn’t the time to be bashful,_ she told herself. “You were kissing my neck.”

Silver rolled over, away from her. “God,” he muttered, “I was hoping I misremembered that.”

She frowned. “Do you mean to say you didn’t want to do that?”

“No, I do,” he said, his eyes flashing. “I just wish I had done it sober first. You don’t deserve some drunk oozing all over you.”

“It’s fine. Next time, sober. Please. I…” Lyra steeled herself again. “I liked it. A lot.”

His face turned red, and Lyra had to smile at that. She eased closer to him and kissed him, once, her fingers on his jaw. He pressed back, once, his hand on her waist. Breaking the kiss, she rolled so her back was to him. He wrapped himself around her, but there wasn’t the burn of need, in spite of their conversation. She felt his forehead pressed to the back of her head, the gale of his breath twisting through her hair and down her back.

His arms, tight around her, were such a comfort. After a moment, she heard a soft “heh” from him, the sound close to her ear, but not close enough to coax a shiver from her. “Did I ever tell you what my favorite piece of music is? Of any genre? You’re absolutely going to laugh at me.”

“Try me,” she said.

He nuzzled into her hair, making her heart nearly explode. “‘Clair de Lune.’ Everyone knows it. Even people who don’t know anything Impressionist know that piece.”

Lyra wanted to say, _You mentioned it drunk, so I should have known._ To preserve his feelings, she lifted his hand and kissed his knuckles. “It’s a beautiful piece. What pretentious piece do you tell everyone when you don’t want them to know you’re a Debussy fan like the rest of us lowlifes?”

“‘Rite of Spring’ by Stravinsky, but it’s not pretentious and you need to take that back,” Silver warned her. She laughed and settled his hand against her belly again. “It’s godly.”

Lyra’s laughter trailed off, and she grinned. “Are you sure about that? I think bassoon players have something different to say about that concert C they have to play at the beginning.”

“Weaklings,” he said. But he added, “It sounds like it hurts the face. And maybe the instrument.”

They chatted for a while, tossing about as they discussed composers. Lyra cuddled Silver, he held her, and they laid on their backs separately. Eventually, Silver flopped himself over Lyra, his head and part of his upper torso resting across her chest. His weight on her was warm, comfortable. They were discussing Prokofiev’s piano works, when Lyra reached down and smoothed his hair, pushing it off his forehead. He fell silent, aside from a soft sigh as she began to comb it away from his hairline with her fingers. “Cat got your tongue?” she teased.

“Yeah, and the cat’s name is Lyra,” he grumbled, but he didn’t protest as she continued stroking his hair. “Dammit. I lost my train of thought.”

“Prokofiev?” Lyra suggested.

He opened one eye balefully, but it shut quickly as she lightly grazed his scalp with her nails. He Silver sighed. “Too late. The Prokofiev train’s left the station. You made me miss it. Deal with the consequences.”

“Whatever shall I do?” she mocked lightly. For that he had no response, and simply enjoyed her ministrations, his eyes closed comfortably. She smiled and relaxed, her head resting on the pillow. For a few minutes she laid beneath him, smoothing and twisting and playing with his hair. It was softer today, perhaps from the humidity. Yet, she relished its coarseness and the faint waves that her fingers threatened to entangle in almost as much as he seemed to relish the additional attention.

She paused for a moment and giggled. “I can’t believe I found your off switch.”

Now both eyes opened. “Off switch?” he said. He rose up on his hands and knees, effectively caging her in beneath him. There was a spark of challenge in his eyes. “You really think I have an off switch?”

“Oh no, I don’t think you do. I _know_ you do,” she said, twisting a strand of his hair, dangling near her face, around her finger. She winked at him. “You were putty.”

“Putty?” In one smooth movement, he rolled to the side and snagged her, pulling her against him. His hold on her was firm, his lips now close to her neck. “I don’t remember a lot from the other night, but you said yourself you were pretty into it.”

She laughed, but the sound was dry. His breath was already making her shivery; there were too many other people in this apartment for him to be doing this to her. “You’re misremembering?” she suggested humorously, her tone weak.

There was a moment of silence before he groaned. “Stop getting cute with me,” he said in a low tone, his lips on her neck as he spoke. She inhaled sharply, her face starting to burn. He seemed to sense her misgivings, as he just kissed her softly, just behind her ear and another time behind the hinge of her jaw. He buried his face in her hair again and laughed. “You…weren’t kidding about that. Your pulse is racing in your neck.”

“Stop it. You’re laughing at me,” she whined. He still laughed, settling her back in her original position and resting himself there. Her heart trying to slow, Lyra smoothed his hair away from his forehead before staring at the ceiling. “Next time we’re at your place, I’ll get cute with you again.”

His eyes flicked up, a spark of amusement and desire there. Silver closed them and settled. “I’ll allow it this once. But never again,” he said.

She poked the top of his head. “Don’t tell me what to do.”

“What the fuck? That’s my line,” he reprimanded, but the edge in his voice was just a wisp.

She sighed and closed her eyes. A gentle lull spread over them, her fingers slowing in his hair, his breath slowing. He seemed so peaceful laying there with her; as she ran her hand over his back and shoulders she sensed no tension. It saddened her, knowing how rare it was that he relaxed like this. She scratched between his shoulder blades. “You’re pretty relaxed,” she commented to him.

“Yeah?” was all he responded.

“I’m glad you can relax with me,” she murmured to him.

He sighed. “You didn’t have to point it out,” he grumbled, his face reddening.

Her fingers traced lazily. “Okay. Sorry. You’re tense. _Very tense._ ”

A rumble resounded low in his throat. He reached across her body and poked her arm. “That’s worse. Stop saying dumb shit.”

“You’re saying even dumber shit,” she responded. She felt him groan at that, but he didn’t as much as lift his head.

Her eyes were closing again, her own peace impending, when she felt him shift. His head was resting on her belly. “When…I get really stressed out, especially with something about the past few years, I try to write,” he admitted. “Something. Anything.”

Before she could inquire further, he added, “There’s a lot I don’t know about myself yet. About what Giovanni’s motives were.”

“I don’t know that stuff either,” she pointed out.

He sighed. “Yeah, you don’t even have the tip of the iceberg.” He rolled off her. The loss of his warmth and the gentle pressure made her want to whine, but she opened her eyes and propped herself on her elbows, looking at him as he laid beside her. His eyes flicked to her. “I…what if I just told you everything? Right now?”

The surprise in her face seemed to surprise him in turn. “Look, I want to tell you these things. You’ve been wondering for years. And now I’m here, and I’ve dangled it out of reach. Like an asshole.” He fell silent, perhaps waiting for her to object to his description of himself. When she didn’t respond, Silver sighed. “I’ll…tell you this story.”

“You can’t disappear on me for days after or I’ll yell at you,” she warned him, “but I want to hear it if you want to tell it.”

“I don’t want to tell you. I want you to know,” he said.

Lyra sat up, her legs laid straight out ahead of her. She peered down at him. “Should…we get comfortable? Like how long do you picture this story being?”

“Long. I like words,” he said. Affection flooded her as he shuffled himself. His head now laid on her thighs, and he peered up at her. “This is going to make me look like an even bigger asshole.”

She smoothed his hair, and the rumple of his forehead soothed. “But it’s part of your part, and it’s part of you. I’ve missed you, and I want to know how you’ve come to be here. And be like this.”

“Yeah.” He looked away, his eyes focusing on the corner of the room. A moment later, his voice came out, even and matter-of-fact, as he began, “I was seventeen when I discovered my dad lied to me. That’s where the shit hit the fan, and that’s where my story starts.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey all. It's been a hot minute since I've updated. Excuse this largely fluff/filler kind of chapter. The next chapter or two is gonna be Silver telling his story. It will be formatted sort of differently than it has been. I won't put any guarantee or prediction as to when I update next. I'm in my last year of college, doing some research, and I'm trying to apply to grad school wahey.
> 
> Anyway, thanks for sticking with me and this fic thus far. Hugs and kisses for y'all.


	16. Chapter 16

**Present Day**

Time seemed to slow as Silver inhaled, drawing out the motion as much as he could, and exhaled, forcing his heart to slow. Fear burned white-hot in him, but Lyra’s fingernails, lightly glancing over his scalp, took the edge off.

He had never chosen to tell anyone his full story. Proton knew it, but it had taken Silver months to come out with what he didn’t already know, often in fragments told over drinks or doing dishes during the lull in the café before the bars closed. To lay here, in Lyra’s bedroom, in an apartment that smelled of roasted garlic and a floral scent he couldn’t place, he almost felt he was doing the right thing, in telling her.

 What was even a logical narrative? Where was he even supposed to start? What if he made himself sound as though he was excusing his past behaviors? What if he condemned himself entirely? What if she hated him?

_There really isn’t a good place to start,_ he thought with a sigh. Everything fell to pieces when he turned seventeen. That was where he’d start. “I was seventeen when I discovered my dad lied to me. That’s where the shit hit the fan, and that’s where my story starts.”

He paused, and took a deep breath again. When he opened his mouth, he said, “I was living in Prague. With Giovanni. There was a notebook.”

* * *

**Two Years Ago**

There was a notebook. Tiny, leather-bound, something that came with them whenever Giovanni decided it was time to up and move. Oftentimes, very little went from place to place, save for clothes, shoes, and a few “heirlooms,” as Giovanni called them, which included an ornately decorated King James bible, annotated in a confusing Italian dialect and a portrait of Giovanni’s mother.

Yet, there was that notebook. Giovanni guarded it closely. There was a safe he always had shipped from place to place, and he had a myriad of black, foreboding jackets. That notebook was either in his jacket pockets or in the safe. Its bright, soft red leather drew Silver’s eye to it; almost everything Giovanni owned was dark in color. Even that bible, decorated as it was, was black and decorated only in dark, cool colors.

Questions about the notebook ultimately were fruitless, for they only led to silence or misdirection. “It’s personal, and that’s all that matters,” was Giovanni’s most common answer.

Yet, from city to city, country to country, Silver found himself obsessing with it. While Giovanni was rigid, most anything he owned was fair game for Silver to touch, read, and look at. Growing up, Silver almost always heard, “Go learn something.”

Something told Silver there was a lot to learn from that notebook, if he could get his hands on it.

It was January in Prague. He’d been shooed out of the apartment, told to buy a particular pastry— _trdelnik,_ or something like that—after spending all morning and afternoon playing around with the violin. Giovanni had opened the door to his room, set a handful of euros on the dresser, and told him, “Go outside.”

So there he was. Outside. Searching for some bakery in the maze of Prague. Truth be told, he _hated_ Prague. This was their third time living here, and Silver struggled to grasp the language. Other than knowing how to ask where basic city utilities were and how to say “hello”, “goodbye”, and “sorry”, Silver didn’t know how to talk to the locals. Whenever someone broke into Italian or German, he could almost cry with relief.

Yes, the city was gorgeous. Yes, As he walked along the streets, the walls of buildings were white or yellow, with a golden glow from windows. Tourists gawked and took photos together, in front of buildings that had seen incredible tragedy and triumph in the city’s long history. Some blocks away was the Prague Castle, difficult to see from his vantage point because of the curvature of the street. It was impressive, but he felt utterly alien and alone here. He swiped the map on his phone and sighed. Another ten minutes to the bakery. Snow swirled around him.

Once there, he stood in line, too warm in his jacket, but with no room to take it off in line. The man behind him was speaking rapid-fire Castilian through his nose. The pair of women ahead spoke Czech; their accents were so regionally strong that he couldn’t understand a word they said. Silver hedged sideways to avoid the strong backswing on one woman’s gestures and bumped into a table. To the grumpy, craggy-browed man sitting there, he mumbled, “ _Promiňte.”_ The man scoffed and turned back to the notebook he was writing in. Silver’s eyes flicked to the notebook; its shape and size reminded him Giovanni’s.

_What even is in that?_ He thought as he stammered his way, half in Czech and half in German, with the cashier. _What does he write in that?_

There was no point in overthinking it, despite how it always nibbled at him. Unless Giovanni conveniently left it out, there was no way to pry the truth from him. His father was like an oyster, clamped tightly around its pearl, and Silver didn’t have the proverbial knife with which he could force him to open up. With two piping hot pastries, he turned back for home. Giovanni could only keep him away from his violin for so long; he was in the process of learning a moody Armenian folk song on the violin.

The building they lived in this time was clearly expensive. Silver didn’t even want to know how much rent was; it was a restored building that seemed to have more glass than stone in its walls, and as he let himself into the building and went upstairs. At the apartment, when he opened the door, he found the place dark and silent. “Father?” he called, as he set the bag down and unraveled his scarf. There was no answer.

He flicked on the lights, revealing the pale, neutral furniture and stark, white-washed walls. There were few personal artifacts, the way Giovanni preferred, save for a greenish Impressionist painting and an ornate gold-plated cross that hung beside the doorway. “Hello?” he called one more time. No one. Silver scoffed, snagging the pastry bag and going to the kitchen. _Was this a diversion so he could escape? I don’t even like trdelnik,_ Silver thought in irritation. He cast it on the counter and almost missed a tiny scrap of white paper sitting on the counter with his father’s cramped, angular handwriting.

He snagged it and read his father’s note. _Business emergency. Should be back before dinner. Don’t eat my trdelnik._ Silver sighed and set it on the counter.

With some irritation, Silver leaned against the counter and ran a hand through his hair. It just barely skimmed his shoulders; he’d been forced to cut it to a more “acceptable” length again recently, much to his chagrin. He picked the note back up, narrowed his eyes, and crumpled it up. What was the point of even asking for a pastry if Giovanni was just going to take off like that?

He took the bag and marched to Giovanni’s room. There was a rule about no food outside of the kitchen or dining room, but Silver was feeling as petty as a scorned Greek god. He pushed the door open and flicked the light on, underhand tossing the bag onto the top of his father’s dresser. Wiping his hands together as if he completed some arduous task after great pains, Silver was about to walk out of the room and return to practicing when red, sitting on top of a white comforter, caught his eye. He nearly stepped out before it occurred to him that there was _one red thing_ that Giovanni owned, and he paused and turned.

There. On the bed. The red notebook. Leather-bound and plain. But _there._ Silver’s thoughts of practicing died as his hand slipped from the door frame and clutched to his chest, as though a mortified elderly woman. “He…just left it there,” he muttered to no one in particular.

It would never happen again, would it? Giovanni, in all of his years, had never left it out there, something so clear and out in the open…and vulnerable. Before he could second guess himself, Silver walked to his father’s bed and sat down on top of the white comforter, and he snatched up the notebook.

Without hesitation, he flipped it open.

* * *

**Present Day**

“What did it say?”

Silver realized he’d trailed off, for Lyra’s voice cut him from his reverie. He looked up, meeting her dark eyes peering into his. “Do you need to take a break?” she asked.

He shook his head and reached up, teasing stray hairs from her face. “No. I’m okay.” Her eyes closed under his touch, and it eased the tense feeling, watching the contentment flood her features. He felt his mouth quirk, the faintest of smiles she wouldn’t even see, and sighed.

“Well, what _didn’t_ it say?” he said, dropping his hands and folding them under his sternum. “Are you familiar with the opera _Don Giovanni?_ ”

She nodded, her eyebrows raised with a smidge of disbelief. “Probably more familiar than you. I’ve played parts of it.”

He couldn’t disagree with that. Silver gazed at the ceiling. “You know his black book, then. How he wrote the names of women he’d slept with. This was like my father’s version of that, but instead of women, it was like…a chronicle of everything he didn’t want me to know.”

Silver paused, waiting for one of her wisecracks, some insinuation that his father was a philandering bastard, but she was silent. He sighed and dragged his hand across his brow. “Okay, so…the first thing I found in this notebook was about my mother.”

* * *

**Two Years Ago**

The first page was blank, save for a few numbers jotted arbitrarily. Silver flipped the page and found the first entry.

_December 25th_

_Gianni turned two yesterday. He will be too young to remember his mother. It is for the better, as it is becoming harder and harder to keep my world from bleeding into hers; she would not hesitate to tear everything down. What she found out is scarcely the tip of the iceberg, but I will not allow her to search any further._

_We are on a train out of the city on Christmas. The further north we go, the whiter the world outside becomes. Gianni cried for his mother for hours, but now he sleeps. He will have questions._

_She cannot ruin me, and she will not ruin my son’s perception of me._

Silver flipped several pages; he found an entry from over a year later.

_March 7 th_

_We had to make an abrupt move for my work. Too many people came to know too much. Too many shifting eyes._

_Gianni already asks more questions than I can bear. Simple deflections currently work. Distractions work. I’ve told him we’re moving so he can see snow this winter, for we didn’t get it during Christmas in Barcelona._

_His mother has not come into the picture. I don’t assume she will. I took every precaution, and I have all of the leverage._

His eyes jumped to the next entry, a little under two years later.

_December 8 th_

_This year, I have decided that I will tell Gianni he has turned three. He is learning to write, and he learns a name that will obscure his identity. With her silence, I become paranoid that she will appear one day and take our son away. Gianni Briccone is three years old. When the time is right, he’ll learn his real surname and of his heritage._

_The last sale made me a larger profit than my mother ever made in this line of work, even accounting for inflation. I wonder what she would think._

Entry after entry flew by, detailing lies and deceptions. The monsters he sold to. The lies he told his son, in, as far as Silver could gather, was a strange attempt at “protecting” him, but from what? And why? His stomach was hurting, but Silver couldn’t tear his eyes away.

He flipped, skimming entries with an increasingly sick feeling, until he saw a name he recognized; the date was from mere weeks after they’d first moved to the States.

_August 9 th_

_Norma is much different in person than she was in correspondence._

_Her encouragement to move here is not unappreciated. I have never been to the western hemisphere; my work has kept me in Europe, Asia, and Africa; to branch out and establish connections here is not a bad idea._

_Our conversations about art and literature in the mail were enlightening, but all she thinks of is her daughter and her work. My advances are rebuked in favor of “stability in her daughter’s life.” It feels to be a weak excuse._

_I don’t care for her child. Lyra, her name is. She’s loud, shrill, and often pounds on the apartment door at ungodly hours to speak with my son. However, it does get Gianni out. He often refuses to play with other children._

_My son is going by a ridiculous nickname currently. He goes by the English word “Silver.” I hope that he outgrows this childish stage._

_For now, we will stay here. Despite Norma being disappointing, this neighborhood is quiet, and it feels far from my troubles._

He flipped again. Entries about business. Entries expressing concern over Silver’s interest in the arts and little else, expressing concern that his son seemed “soft.” Gripes about Silver’s friendships. The rare pride when everything seemed to be “going to plan.”

Then, he hit it. An entry from not long after a fishing trip.

_April 20 th_

_We have long overstayed our welcome. I suspect Norma knows too much now. She isn’t a stupid woman, despite her commitment to stay single. Her questions are often barbed, her face suggesting that there’s something she knows. I don’t care to face that scrutiny at such a critical hour. My connections here are solid, and my son has spent too many of his impressionable years in the west._

_He spends virtually all of his free time with the girl or playing violin. He largely ignores the cello I bought him. I’m frustrated with Gianni’s casual attitudes; if we go far from here, many of these issues should be resolved. He will not be influenced by weak, coddling women._

_I had hoped, in raising him without his mother, that my son would become a strong man, but he instead seeks out feminine influences in everything; many of his friends are Lyra’s friends, who are women and burgeoning homosexuals._

_We will leave soon and leave this far behind._

Silver slammed the book shut and flung it, nailing the headboard of Giovanni’s bed with it. The room was spinning, and he had to put his head between his knees as he took calming breaths. “What the fuck,” he whispered to himself. “What the actual fucking _fuck._ ”

Where was there to go from here? Silver clutched at the front of his shirt, as if to tear the grimy, disgusted feeling from his skin. Could he confront his father? Could he find information to contact his mother? The thought of having a mother—someone who had no idea where he was or if he was okay—bit him, and Silver’s head dropped into his hands. He opened his mouth, as if to scream, but no sound would come out.

Giovanni had actively spent his life isolating his son. The notebook was full of justifications—selfish, authoritarian, disgusting justifications, and Silver wanted nothing more than to burn it.

He swallowed the urge and stood, brushing himself off. Mechanically, he grabbed the notebook again. Flipping open the cover, he saw numbers. Silver dug his phone from his pocket, flipped it open, and snapped pictures. He flipped through, taking pictures of particularly damning entries, and then tucked it into his back pocket. There was no way he _wasn’t_ confronting Giovanni. How could he not? His life had been _sabotaged_ in favor of his father’s shady, shitty business dealings.

Silver walked into the kitchen, feeling as though he was in a fugue state. He stood at the counter, his grip on it white-knuckled, and he tried to inhale slowly, to bring some kind of peace and clarity to his mind. Yet, the more he breathed, the more oxygen flooded through him, the more he simmered. Silver felt himself frowning, and then he felt himself grimacing, scowling. His anger was rising. It flashed white-hot, and it was as though his brain shut off. Without thinking, he grabbed a mug, left upside down to dry on the counter, and spiked it into the tile floor. The white porcelain scattered across the floor. He grabbed another and smashed it, and a third shortly after. He stood, panting, staring at the mess on the floor, and wondered if his heart was going to exit his body through his throat.

_Giovanni can’t see this._ The rage had boiled off as quickly as it had grown. He set to cleaning up the hazardous trap of porcelain shards, grabbing a dustpan and a broom. Right. Cleaning. Pretend things were normal until Giovanni returned. Mechanically, he swept up the mess and tossed the shards into the garbage. He went to the sink to wash his hands and noticed a long gash across his palm, oozing steadily. The pain didn’t register; Silver existed beside his own body, feeling as though he watched himself clean the mess.

After washing the cut out and bandaging his hand, he sat on the couch, waiting for the inevitable explosion when Giovanni returned. What would happen when he saw his father’s face? How would he feel, then? A shaky numbness had spread through him, and Silver clutched his injured hand to his chest.

Maybe mere seconds or several years passed before the key clicked in the lock. Silver jumped to his feet, shoved his hands into his pockets. The notebook felt like a burning weight in his back pocket, an item so full of sins and lies and half-truths that Silver wanted to slap it in Giovanni’s face and demand answers.

The door opened, and Giovanni, the fucking bastard himself, staggered in, the picture of exhaustion. He hung his coat up on the coat tree beside the door and almost seemed to not notice Silver was there until after he loosened the scarf from around his neck, too. “Gianni. Did you pick up the _trdelnik_?”

_The pastries._ A question about something so mundane somehow brought Silver into a rational headspace. His face became a mask of indifference. “I left them on your dresser. You can have both. I don’t care for them,” he responded.

“Food stays in the kitchen,” Giovanni reminded him, but he walked to his room and emerged, carrying the bag in one hand. “Thank you,” he said.

The notebook in this pocket seemed even heavier. While Giovanni’s back was turned, he quickly slipped into Giovanni’s room and tucked it under the comforter. When Silver returned to the living room, Giovanni seemed none the wiser for his son’s actions. “I was thinking about carbonara tonight. It’s been a while since we’ve had a traditional Italian meal,” Giovanni said.

Silver gave a small nod, despite his father’s back being turned. It occurred to him that blowing up on his father was…foolish. Giovanni, despite his obvious exhaustion and web of deception, seemed unbothered. Utterly, completely unbothered. He was paranoid and prepared for any disaster that came his way, ready to spin it into _la tragedia di Giovanni._ No, Silver had to play his cards right.

Instead of spewing the anger and betrayal he felt, Silver simply said, “That sounds fine.”

* * *

 

**Present Day**

“Right then, I had no fucking idea what to do. I didn’t think there was a way to ‘win.’ I felt like I had been stolen and stolen from, and all I really wanted to do was smash everything he cared about. I wanted to hurt him, but I had to be rational. I had to stay cool,” Silver said to her.

Lyra smoothed her hand over Silver’s forehead and hairline; he realized he was frowning, and his expression eased. He looked up to her, as she gazed down at him with great sadness. He sighed. “Also, I’m gonna throw in a side note here, before we move on. Giovanni started corresponding with you mother because he was trying to buy art from her. He became enamored.”

Lyra’s nose wrinkled. “That’s disgusting. Oh my God. I hate it.”

“Your mom’s no dumbass. She knew something was up with him.”

Lyra flopped back, her head hitting the pillow with a _whump._ “You know, I kind of suspected that. Your dad seems like the sort who’d idealize some woman he’d never met and then move to her _building_  to try to woo her.”

Silver shifted himself to be beside her, head angled to meet her gaze. She watched him, expectant, and he sighed. His hand sought hers, and he linked his fingers tightly through hers. He lifted their linked hands and kissed the back of her hand once before continuing. “So…I got the great idea that I was going to run away, because I thought he had no idea that I knew anything. I just wanted to leave in the middle of the night and disappear from his life.”

* * *

**Two Years Ago**

Over the course of a week, Silver began packing in secret. He had a duffel bag, in which he packed necessities. Some of the numbers Silver found were particularly convenient; when Giovanni was gone, Silver fiddled with the safe and discovered that a few opened it. Inside were piles of cash, a cell phone that wouldn’t turn on, and a gold-cast statuette of the Virgin Mary that Silver couldn’t bear to look at. He took as much cash as he dared and lined the bottom of the duffel and the folds of his wallet with it; Giovanni seemed none the wiser, never conveying suspicion.

He went to a local drugstore and bought hairdye. Black. In case he needed to disguise himself, but Silver refused to dye it if he didn’t have to. It was bad enough he was forced to cut off several years of growth, leaving it shoulder length and terribly puffy.

Another item he found, in the safe, was his birth certificate, the one for Giovanni Bianchi II—Gianni Briccone was a fabrication, a myth, a red herring. On it was his name, his father’s, and that of a mother he couldn’t remember, a woman who probably lent him his red hair and gray eyes.

After some indecision, he took that, too. Something told him Giovanni would miss that more than the large amount of cash Silver just pilfered.

Exactly one week after, after he heard his father switch off the lights in the living room and close his bedroom door, Silver waited what felt like the longest hour of his life before rising. He pulled shoes on and shouldered his duffle; he’d only very quickly snag his keys on the way out.

He brought out a note, one he’d written to his father, to leave on the counter. It simply read _I can’t forgive you. Don’t come looking for me._ Silver had several drafts that were failures, ones he’d quickly blacked out with permanent marker and burned in the fireplace, just for an extra precaution.

No, Silver didn’t know where he would go. He was going to take a train to Italy—where, he didn’t know. Tired of languages he barely spoke, sick of the bitter cold of Central European winters, he wanted to strike out for himself somewhere that he knew the language and felt at ease with the customs. Without Giovanni around, maybe he could find a way to contact Lyra and Norma again—they had cared more for him than his father ever did.

He exited his room and moved quickly to the door, leaving the note on the kitchen counter on the way and grabbing his jacket. As he was donning it, his heart nearly stopped. Light was flooding the room. Giovanni was awake and standing in the doorway of his bedroom. Backlit as he was, it was hard to see his expression, to know what he was doing.

“Son. Where are you going?” Giovanni asked.

Silver’s heart was in his throat. “Out.” He said, the tone as cool as he could manage.

“This late? With a duffel?” Giovanni moved toward the kitchen counter, where the note was. Silver’s stomach churned as his father snagged the note, reading it. There was a long silence as Giovanni set the note back down. In the half-light, Silver couldn’t see his expression, but his posture was incredibly tense.

After a long silence, Giovanni said, “I know you read it. I’ve known for several days. I realized I forgot the damned thing here, and I remembered leaving it on the bed. I found it in my drawer. At first, I hoped that you had simply just put it away for me, when you left those pastries in my room. But no. You decided to stick your nose where it doesn’t belong.”

Silver’s heart was in his throat. His face hurt. His eyes hurt. All the blood was rushing into his legs. _Get away,_ his brain warned. “You lied to me,” he said, his voice dry, thin. “My whole fucking life is a lie.”

“It had to be.” Giovanni regarded him. “Now that you know, you should know your heritage. My mother before me was in organized crime. I became an arms dealer. You, too, will inherit this mantle.”

He shook his head. “No.”

Giovanni came closer, and now Silver could see his expression. It gave nothing away; there wasn’t even a rumple of his brow, a downward quirk of his mouth. “It’s your legacy, Gianni. I have only tried to educate you, to introduce you to it—”

Silver barked with bitter laughter. “You kept me away from anyone who ever cared about me,” Silver zipped up his jacket; he had every intention to leave this bleached out, overly clean apartment. “I can’t live like this.”

“In comfort?” Giovanni scoffed.

“Comfort?” Something snapped within Silver. He marched up to Giovanni; his father was a mere inch taller than him, but his imposing, dark presence would normally have kept Silver from getting so close. Now, he didn’t care. What was there to care about? Keeping his hands at his sides, balled into fists, Silver snapped, “So moving every six months is comfort? Talking shit about my best friend and her mother is comfort? Insulting my hobbies is comfort? _Isolating_ _me_ is comfort?”

Giovanni scowled down at him. “I have not isolated you.”

“Tell me, how much fucking Czech do I know?” Silver searched Giovanni’s face. “When’s the last time we lived in Italy? Germany? Spain? Somewhere I speak the language? Tell me how easy it is to live somewhere you struggle to string together more than three words at a given time. Tell me why you yanked us from America. Tell me why you chose _that building._ ”

“You’re making this incredibly personal. It’s about business—”

Silver tore away. “Yeah, business. Business this and that. And it is personal, because it _affects me._ ” Silver snatched the duffel bag. “I’m leaving.”

As he opened the door, Giovanni said, “You won’t make it on your own. You have no one to go to.”

Silver paused, and then he took a step into the hall. “So be it.”

“You’ll be back.”

Silver looked over his shoulder, meeting his father’s eyes. With certainty, Silver responded, “No, I won’t.”

He let the door slam shut behind him as he walked out. Taking his apartment key from a now empty keyring, he slid it under the door and stormed away. To the train station, and then to wherever he could get tickets to—that was the prerogative. There was nothing in his heart but an icy rage, nothing in his head but the thought of _anywhere else._ In the streets of Prague, Silver walked away, grateful for the solitude, letting hot, salty tears trail down his cheeks, only to freeze just below his cheekbones in the icy air.

Was he free? Was this freedom? He didn’t know. But Silver _hurt._ Maybe this act was akin to pulling a knife from a stab wound and allowing himself to bleed out; was this really the way to deal with it?

_I can’t go back, and I won’t,_ he told himself. _And Giovanni can’t make me._

* * *

**Present Day**

“He just let you leave like that?” Lyra had turned onto her side, staring at him with wide eyes. “Just…in the middle of the night, in the middle of winter, in a city you barely spoke the language in.”

Silver gave a nod. “He did.” He was starting to resume, but her expression was so concerned, so hurt, that he sighed. Silver eased closer and kissed her forehead softly. His lips lingered close to her as he murmured, “Lyra, I’m okay. I’m right here by you. I made it.”

She tried to give a smile, but it looked watery. Lyra sat up and rubbed her face. “Oh man. Here I was worried how you’d handle this, and I’m being a giant baby.”

He gazed up at her, at the mess of waves and curls tumbling over her back. She turned back to him and shrugged. “I’m sorry about this. I just…hate your dad. And I worry about you.”

“Lyra, I’m _fine._ ” He sat up and hooked his arm around her neck, pressing a kiss to her temple. She turned into the kiss, brushing her lips against his. The movement jolted him, and he tucked his head away. He peered at her. “This is in the past.”

“I know.” She brushed the heels of her hands against her eyes. “It’s still hard. But I think I’m okay to keep going, if you’re okay.”

He gave a nod. “Yeah. I am. So…I took a train. The ticket was ultimately for Florence, with a few changes of rails along the way. And I ended up there, in mid-January, with nothing but some cash to my name.”

* * *

**Two Years Ago**

To be back among people who spoke his language, with people whose customs and mannerisms he was accustomed to, was a massive relief for Silver. As he stepped off the train, crunched and bedraggled from the ride, he already felt a massive sense of relief from the warmer temperature and the smell in the air that was more familiar. He didn’t have words for it; there was a smell in Italy that resonated deep in his soul, that made him feel like a human being again.

Silver tracked down a youth hostel, one that allowed him to pay with cash, and he dropped his bag on his bed. During daylight hours, virtually no one was there. One bunk had a sleeping form in it, a young man with a cloud of black curls. Silver paid him little heed before dropping into the bed, his mind racing. He had enough money to live off for about a month at this hostel, but he needed to find work. On top of that, the hostel had a six-week limit on stays. He had to start making money so he could afford to move into something else, hopefully something more permanent.

Within days he found under-the-table work washing dishes at a hole-in-the-wall kind of restaurant. He knew the pay wasn’t much, but it kept him from rapidly eating through the cash in his duffel bag. Silver also busked; he’d stashed his violin hastily in his bag, almost as an afterthought, but he appreciated it. Around fountains and on street corners his violin’s soaring melodies could be heard, piercing the cool, midwinter sky.

Despite supporting himself, living in Florence, Silver felt…empty. Being away from Giovanni was needed; he suspected that, had he stayed, he would have potentially gotten into a physical fight with his father at best. But here, his life outside of working and busking felt incredibly empty. Most things that could be done for fun cost money. He was in _Florence,_ for Christ’s sake, and couldn’t go enjoy his life on a whim.

He supposed it was resentment that grew in him. Work, busking, alone in a hostel room he shared with upwards of six or seven people at a time, was dull, maddening. Giovanni hadn’t reared his head, but nor had anything else. As the weeks bore on, as his hands dried and cracked from dish soap and his savings seemed to barely grow, there was a black, ugly twist of emotions that grew in his soul.

He sat in his bunk, crunching numbers one night after work. _If I pick up a second part-time job in the mornings, I could afford a really cheap, shitty apartment if I had a roommate. I’d also have to shop even cheaper for groceries to afford that. But then I really need to open a bank account to pay rent, and what if Giovanni uses that to track me down?_ He sighed and glanced at the calendar: February 10th. He’d only been there for three weeks, but what there was a time limit he had to adhere to as well. _When the six weeks is up, I can just move hostels for the time being, I guess._ Silver paused in his calculations and pondering as the man who slept above him climbed into the bunk, shaking the whole bed. Silver sighed and pushed his hands through his hair. The hostels couldn’t be forever, could they?

Tired and frustrated, Silver donned his jacket and went for a walk. The hostel was in a grimier part of the city; the beautiful facades and antiquated streets were a good thirty minutes’ walk away. Yet, even here, some history could be spotted—patches of preserved cobble, statues of angels and soldiers, the occasional ornate façade. Silver hoped the cool air would ease the heat of his head, the bitterness in his soul, but it instead seemed to grow, the further he walked. Had he been right to run away? What didn’t he know about making it that he wasn’t making any progress forward?

He paused on a corner to stew. Across the street was an older American man in a long duster coat, digging around in his bag for something. Silver regarded him curiously. Under the lamp, Silver noticed the ends of a few euros, brightly colored, sticking out of his pocket. His jacket was expensive, beige, the scarf loosely wrapped around his neck looking to be made of angora.

_Would he miss a few crumpled euros?_ Silver wondered. The minute the thought crossed his mind, he shook his head. There was no good in pursuing those thoughts; he was no better than Giovanni if he entertained those thoughts. Yet, as he watched, the man continued rummaging, totally oblivious to the people walking by him and around him with utter annoyance. It circled around again—would the man miss a few crumpled euros?

Seized by an immense and terrible compulsion, Silver glanced both ways and began to walk across the street. The man didn’t even look up as Silver approached; it helped that they were at an intersection, he supposed. As Silver crossed by, his heart started pounding, but he lifted his hand. It wasn’t as bad as Giovanni, to just try and line his pockets a little bit, right? He could live at a miserly level, but it wasn’t sustainable to jump from hostel to hostel, was it?

_I shouldn’t._ Silver snatched his hand back at the last minute. He sighed and tapped the man on the shoulder. “Your money is about to fall out of your pocket,” he said, in accented, halting English.

The man glanced at Silver and felt for his pocket. “Oh, thank you, young man,” he said, his voice distinct with a southern twang. “I didn’t realize.”

Silver gave him a nod and continued walking. _You can’t steal. You can’t be like Giovanni,_ he told himself, but something in him was unsure. Now the itch was there, a feeling in his fingers that told him to reach out and snag things he needed. As the man fell further and further behind him, the relief that he hadn’t committed a crime and the anger that he hadn’t just taken money the man probably didn’t need compounded.

Several weeks passed, and the itch hadn’t left. Silver moved hostels, to another with a six-week limit and a slightly more expensive rate. That added strain made his eyes flick whenever he saw the flash of euros and coins. He saw money sticking out of purses when he bussed at work. Tips left for servers. People who took off precious gold and silver rings before eating. _Don’t be like your father. Don’t shit on other people’s happiness to get yours,_ he told himself. _You can get by without taking what doesn’t belong to you._

Telling himself that did little, and it was not to his shock—but to his great disappointment—that he spotted a gaggle of chatty, well-dressed French girls walking home, taking up the entire sidewalk with their group.

It was then he lost. _Fuck it._ As Silver shot past the group, he dipped his hand quickly into the side pocket of a purse and withdrew his hand, snagging a handful of coins and a few rumpled euros. He shoved them in his pocket and continued walking. They were none the wiser, still chatting and giggling.

Once he was a few blocks past and a side street over, Silver paused and counted the money. It wasn’t much; only €15 euros or so. But it was money that would go toward food, savings, and better living accommodations.

What would Giovanni think, to know that his son had done that? Silver pocketed the money and turned back toward the hostel, his heart racing. Despite his shame, there was a rush. He laughed to himself. Would they even know he’d stolen cash? Or would they think they’d dropped it somewhere? Overtipped, maybe?

Back at the hostel, Silver stashed the money with the pile of cash he was still dipping into. He quickly zipped the duffel bag back up and stared at the bunk above him, wondering what he was becoming.

* * *

**Present Day**

Lyra had her head on his shoulder as he talked, her arm wrapped around his and clasping his hand. Her thumb rubbed against the side of his hand and fingers with a light gentleness, the motion so soothing that Silver barely felt any tension, despite talking about his descent into petty crime.

He glanced down at her. “You okay?”

She nodded. “I am. Are you?”

“Yes.” He watched her thumb make its gentle motions. “You’re…hearing about really ugly, shitty parts of myself.”

“We all have those,” Lyra said, her voice close to his ear. She rubbed her cheek into his shoulder. “It’s the past, too.”

He sighed. “I was even shittier than that, though. I made a ‘friend.’ I use the term loosely, because she thought of me as a friend, and I was…using her.”

“How so?” Lyra asked.

Silver nodded and sighed. Up until now, it hadn’t been easy to talk about his past, per se, but it wasn’t a struggle. Her warm presence and clarifying questions put him at ease. To talk about how far he fell, from a near-theft and his initial theft, was going to be a struggle. He swallowed, hard. “Yeah. Uh. So. At my job, I met someone a little older than me, an exchange student. We became friends. She saw me as a little brother, introduced me to her friends. And…I stole from her. On multiple occasions.”

Lyra peeled her face away from his shoulder and gazed at him. “Why?”

“I…” he sighed. “I need to take a break before we talk about this.”

She nodded, her face uncertain. “Okay. Do you need anything?”

Silver shook his head. “Just…air. Give me ten minutes, and I’ll be back in.” He pulled away from her, not without squeezing her hand once, and stepped off her bed. Through the apartment he drifted, then downstairs and out of the shop door. Silver stood outside, inhaling the salty breeze, and tried to steady himself.

He generally tried not to think about those months anymore, the ones where he stole from a person who called herself his friend. “Little brother,” she’d called him, to her friends. To admit that to Lyra was to divulge an incredibly dark, malignant secret. On top of that, to get into that was to start talking about the last time he saw his father, the first time he met Proton—there was a great deal there, things that involved players beyond himself, in a game that he had cheated playing.

What would Lyra even think?

_Lyra won’t hate you,_ said a voice in his head, small, but present. _She said she wouldn’t hate you. Trust her. If anyone needs to know, it’s her. I don’t think she’s going to be happy with you, but she isn’t going to condemn you for your decisions, either._

His doubts shrank. He pushed his hand through his hair and sighed, wishing he had a cigarette. For the time being, Silver ignored the urge and went back inside.

When he returned to Lyra’s room, her eyes flicked up. She was laying on her stomach, legs crossed in the air as she scrolled through a social media feed on her phone. “Oh dang, you came back,” she said, setting the phone aside. He wasn’t sure whether to be offended or amused by the amazement in her voice.

Silver scoffed, but he knew that her mistrust wasn’t misplaced. “I said I’d tell you about this, so I’m going to tell you.” He sat on the edge of the bed, and Lyra angled herself to face him. Her face was ready, expectant. Silver groaned and rubbed at his eyes. _Here goes nothing._ “So…I met a British exchange student. She came into that restaurant to study, sometimes alone, sometimes with her friends. Her name was Leaf. And I used her.”

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ah, after some time, I return with Silver angst. What a shocker. He's had a rough go, struggling with compulsions and finding purpose. I'm hoping the style I've employed this chapter (and will be employing next chapter, too) will be acceptable in conveying those moods.
> 
> I hope y'all are well. I've had kind of a rough semester, but I'm Thanksgiving Break for now, yay! So, update time.
> 
> Also, yes, Leaf. Not Blue. This isn't Pokespe, despite Silver having gray eyes (I can't justify red eyes in a modern, IRL kind of AU whoops).
> 
> There really isn't any music for this chapter, but I was recommended a band that is VERY Silver, and here's a song I particularly like for him:
> 
> Particles by Nothing but Thieves: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=VmbOkN8zhos
> 
> Until next update, do take care!


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